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Vol. II., by William Wordsworth

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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Vol. II.

Author: William Wordsworth

Release Date: April 26, 2004 [EBook #12145]

Language: English

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Wordsworth's



Poetical Works

volume 2




edited by

William Knight



1896

Table of Contents

• 1798
• 1799
• 1800
• Poems on the Naming of Places
• 1801
• 1802
• 1803

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Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1803

Edited by William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

• 1803
• • The Green Linnet
  • Yew-Trees
  • "Who fancied what a pretty sight"
  • "It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"
  • Memorials of a Tour in Scotland
  • • Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)
    • At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death
    • Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence
    • To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father
    • To a Highland Girl
    • Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen
    • Stepping Westward
    • The Solitary Reaper
    • Address to Kilchurn Castle
    • Rob Roy's Grave
    • Sonnet composed at —— Castle
    • Yarrow Unvisited
    • The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband
    • "Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"
    • The Blind Highland Boy
  • October, 1803
  • "There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear"
  • October, 1803 (2)
  • "England! the time is come when thou should'st wean"
  • October, 1803 (3)
  • To the Men of Kent. October, 1803
  • In the Pass of Killicranky
  • Anticipation. October, 1803
  • Lines on the Expected Invasion, 1803

1803

The poems associated with the year 1803 consist mainly of the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland," which Wordsworth and his sister took—along with Coleridge—in the autumn of that year, although many of these were not written till some time after the Tour was finished. The Green Linnet and Yew-trees were written in 1803, and some sonnets were composed in the month of October; but, on the whole, 1803 was not a fruitful year in Wordsworth's life, as regards his lyrics and smaller poems. Doubtless both The Prelude and The Excursion were revised in 1803.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Green Linnet

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where the bird was often seen as here described.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow white blossoms on my head,

With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet

To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,

Make all one band of paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment:

A Life, a Presence like the Air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,

Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings

Upon his back and body flings

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A Brother of the dancing leaves;

Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

Variant 1:  

1827

The May is come again:—how sweet

To sit upon my Orchard-seat!

And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,

My last year's Friends together:

My thoughts they all by turns employ;

A whispering Leaf is now my joy,

And then a Bird will be the toy

That doth my fancy tether.

1807

And Flowers and Birds once more to greet,

1815

The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1827.
return


Variant 2:  

1845

Upon ...

1807

return


Variant 3:  

1845

While thus before my eyes he gleams,

A Brother of the Leaves he seems;

When in a moment forth he teems

His little song in gushes:

1807

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,

A Bird so like the dancing Leaves;

Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

1827

My dazzled sight the Bird deceives,

A Brother of the dancing Leaves;

1832

The Bird my dazzled sight deceives,

1840

The Bird my dazzling sight deceives

C.

return


Variant 4:  

1827

As if it pleas'd him to disdain

And mock the Form which he did feign,

While he was dancing with the train

Of Leaves among the bushes.

1807

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

1820

return

Note:   Of all Wordsworth's poems this is the one most distinctively associated with the Orchard, at Town-end, Grasmere. Dorothy Wordsworth writes in her Journal under date May 28th, 1802:

"We sat in the orchard. The young bull-finches in their pretty coloured raiment, bustle about among the blossoms, and poise themselves like wire-dancers or tumblers, shaking the twigs and dashing off the blossoms."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Yew-Trees

Composed 1803.—Published 1815

The Poem

[Written at Grasmere. These Yew-trees are still standing, but the spread of that at Lorton is much diminished by mutilation. I will here mention that a little way up the hill, on the road leading from Rosthwaite to Stonethwaite (in Borrowdale) lay the trunk of a Yew-tree, which appeared as you approached, so vast was its diameter, like the entrance of a cave, and not a small one. Calculating upon what I have observed of the slow growth of this tree in rocky situations, and of its durability, I have often thought that the one I am describing must have been as old as the Christian era. The Tree lay in the line of a fence. Great masses of its ruins were strewn about, and some had been rolled down the hillside and lay near the road at the bottom. As you approached the tree, you were struck with the number of shrubs and young plants, ashes, etc., which had found a bed upon the decayed trunk and grew to no inconsiderable height, forming, as it were, a part of the hedgerow. In no part of England, or of Europe, have I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude, as it must have stood. By the bye, Hutton, the old guide, of Keswick, had been so impressed with the remains of this tree, that he used gravely to tell strangers that there could be no doubt of its having been in existence before the flood.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary Tree! a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane;—a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

Perennially—beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries—ghostly Shapes

May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton

And Time the Shadow;—there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents

5

10

15

20

25

30

Note:   The text of this poem was never altered. The Lorton Yew-tree—which, in 1803, was "of vast circumference," the "pride of Lorton Vale," and described as:

'a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed—'

does not now verify its poet's prediction of the future. Mr. Wilson Robinson of Whinfell Hall, Cockermouth, wrote to me of it in May 1880:

"The tree in outline expanded towards the root considerably: then, at about two feet from the ground, the trunk began to separate into huge limbs, spreading in all directions. I once measured this trunk at its least circumference, and found it 23 feet 10 inches. For the last 50 or 60 years the branches have been gradually dying on the S. E. side, and about 25 years ago a strong S. E. gale, coming with accumulated force down Hope Gill, and—owing to the tree being so open on that side—taking it laterally at a disadvantage, wrenched off one of the great side branches down to the ground, carrying away nearly a third of the tree. This event led to farther peril; for, the second portion having been sold to a cabinetmaker at Whitehaven for #15, this gave the impression that the wood was very valuable (owing to the celebrity of the tree); and a local woodmonger bought the remainder. Two men worked half a day to grub it up; but a Cockermouth medical gentleman, hearing what was going on, made representations to the owner, and it ended in the woodmen sparing the remainder of the tree, which was not much the worse for what had been done. Many large dead branches have also been cut off, and now we have to regret that the 'pride of Lorton Vale,' shorn of its ancient dignity, is but a ruin, much more venerable than picturesque."

The "fraternal Four of Borrowdale" are certainly "worthier still of note." The "trunk" described in the Fenwick note, as on the road between Rosthwaite and Stonethwaite, has disappeared long ago; but the "solemn and capacious grove" existed till 1883 in its integrity. The description in the poem is realistic throughout, while the visible scene suggests

"an ideal grove, in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which they dimly listen."

(Stopford A. Brooke, in Theology in the English Poets, p. 259.) With the first part of the poem Wordsworth's Sonnet composed at —— Castle during the Scotch Tour of 1803 may be compared (p. 410). For a critical estimate of the poem see Modern Painters, part III. sec. II, chap. iv. Ruskin alludes to "the real and high action of the imagination in Wordsworth's Yew-trees (perhaps the most vigorous and solemn bit of forest landscape ever painted). It is too long to quote, but the reader should refer to it: let him note especially, if painter, that pure touch of colour, 'by sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged.'" See also Coleridge's criticism in Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. p. I77, edition 1847, and his daughter Sara's comment on her father's note. There can be little doubt that, as Professor Dowden has suggested, the lines 23 to 28 were suggested to Wordsworth by Virgil's lines in the Sixth Book of the Æneid, 273-284:

'Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci

Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curæ;

Pallentesque habitant Morbi, tristisque Senectus,

Et Metus, et malesuada Fames, ac turpis Egestas,

Terribiles visu formæ, Letumque, Labosque;

Tum consanguineus Leti Sopor, et mala mentis

Gaudia, mortiferumque adverso in limine Bellum,

Ferreique Eumenidum thalami, et Discordia demens,

Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis.

In medio ramos annosaque bracchia pandit

Ulmus opaca, ingens, quam sedem Somnia volgo

Vana tenere ferunt, foliisque sub omnibus hærent.'

"The 'Four Yew Trees,' and the mysterious company which you have assembled there, 'Death the Skeleton and Time the Shadow.' It is a sight not for every youthful poet to dream of; it is one of the last results he must have gone thinking for years for."

(Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, 1815.) In Crabb Robinson's Diary, a reference to the Yew-trees of Lorton and Borrowdale will be found under date Sept. 16 and 20, 1816.

"The pride of Lorton Vale" is now a ruin, and has lost all its ancient majesty: but, until the close of 1883, the "fraternal four" of Borrowdale were still to be seen "in grand assemblage." Every one who has felt the power of Wordsworth's poetry,—and especially those who had visited the Seathwaite valley, and read the Yew-Trees under the shade of that once "solemn and capacious grove" before 1884,—must have felt as if they had lost a personal friend, when they heard that the "grove" was gone. The great gale of December 11, 1883, smote it fiercely, uprooting one of the trees, and blowing the others to ribbands. The following is Mr. Rawnsley's account of the disaster:

'Last week the gale that ravaged England did the Lake country much harm. We could spare many of the larch plantations, and could hear (with a sigh) of the fall of the giant Scotch firs opposite the little Scafell Inn at Rosthwaite, and that Watendlath had lost its pines; but who could spare those ancient Yews, the great

"... fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved."

'For beneath their pillared shade since Wordsworth wrote his poem, that Yew-tree grove has suggested to many a wanderer up Borrowdale, and visitant to the Natural Temple,

"an ideal grove in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which they dimly listen."

'These Yew-trees, seemingly

"Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed,"

'have been ruthlessly overthrown. One has been uprooted bodily; all the leaders and branches of the others have been wrenched from the main trunk; and the three still standing are bare poles and broken wreckage. Until one visits the spot one can have no conception of the wholesale destruction that the hurricane has wrought; until he looks on the huge rosy-hearted branches he cannot guess the tremendous force with which the tornado had fallen upon that "sable roof of boughs."

'For tornado or whirlwind it must needs have been. The Yews grew under the eastern flank of the hill called Base Brown. The gale raged from the westward. One could hardly believe it possible that the trees could have been touched by it; for the barrier hill on which they grew,—and under whose shelter they have seen centuries of storm,—goes straight upwards, betwixt them and the west. It was only realizable when, standing amid the wreckage, and looking across the valley, it was seen that a larch plantation had been entirely levelled, and evidently by a wind that was coming from the east, and directly toward the Yew-trees. On enquiring at Seathwaite Farm, one found that all the slates blown from the roof of that building on the west side, had been whirled up clean over the roof: and we can only surmise that the winds rushing from the west and north-west, and meeting the bastions of Glaramara and the Sty-head slopes, were whirled round in the 'cul-de-sac' of the valley, and moved with churning motion back from east to west over the Seathwaite Farm, and so in straight line across the beck, and up the slope to the Yew-tree cluster. With what a wrenching, and with what violence, these trees were in a moment shattered, only those can guess who now witness the ruins of the pillared shade, upon the "grassless floor of red-brown hue."'"

Ed.

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"Who fancied what a pretty sight"

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

In the edition of 1807 this poem was No. VIII. of the series entitled "Moods of my own Mind." It was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Fancy," and in a MS. copy it was named The Coronet of Snowdrops.—Ed.

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Who fancied what a pretty sight

This Rock would be if edged around

With living snow-drops? circlet bright!

How glorious to this orchard-ground!

Who loved the little Rock, and set

Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?

Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled

The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?

Of man mature, or matron sage?

Or old man toying with his age?

I asked—'twas whispered; The device

To each and all might well belong:

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.

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"It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I remember the instant my sister S. H., called me to the window of our Cottage, saying, "Look how beautiful is yon star! It has the sky all to itself." I composed the verses immediately.—I. F.]

This was No. XIII. of "Moods of my own Mind," in the edition of 1807. It was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

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It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,

And is descending on his embassy;

Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!

'Tis Hesperus—there he stands with glittering crown,

First admonition that the sun is down!

For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;

A few are near him still—and now the sky,

He hath it to himself—'tis all his own.

O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

Within me when I recognised thy light;

A moment I was startled at the sight:

And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

That I might step beyond my natural race

As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace

Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,

My Soul, an Apparition in the place,

Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove!

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O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

Within me when I recognised thy light;

A moment I was startled at the sight:

And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

That even I beyond my natural race

Might step as thou dost now: might one day trace

1815

O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought

A startling recollection to my mind

Of the distinguished few among mankind,

Who dare to step beyond their natural race,

As thou seem'st now to do:—nor was a thought

Denied—that even I might one day trace

1820

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1807.
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Footnote A:   Professor Dowden directs attention to the relation between these lines and the poem beginning "If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven."—Ed.
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Memorials of a Tour in Scotland

1803

These poems were first collected, under the above title, in the edition of 1827. In 1807, nine of them—viz. Rob Roy's Grave, The Solitary Reaper, Stepping Westward, Glen Almain, or, The Narrow Glen, The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband, To a Highland Girl, Sonnet, To the Sons of Burns after visiting the Grave of their Father, Yarrow Unvisited,—were printed under the title, "Poems written during a Tour in Scotland." This group begins the second volume of the edition of that year. But in 1815 and 1820—when Wordsworth began to arrange his poems in groups—they were distributed with the rest of the series in the several artificial sections. Although some were composed after the Tour was finished—and the order in which Wordsworth placed them is not the order of the Scotch Tour itself—it is advisable to keep to his own method of arrangement in dealing with this particular group, for the same reason that we retain it in such a series as the Duddon Sonnets.—Ed.

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Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)^A

Composed 1811.—Published 1827

The Poem

[Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started together from Town-end to make a tour in Scotland. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection; and he departed from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left Loch Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my Epistle to Sir George Beaumont.—I. F.]

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The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains

Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;

Even for the tenants of the zone that lies

Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,

Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap

At will the crystal battlements, and peep

Into some other region, though less fair,

To see how things are made and managed there.

Change for the worse might please, incursion bold

Into the tracts of darkness and of cold;

O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer,

And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.

Such animation often do I find,

Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind,

Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,

Perchance without one look behind me cast,

Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth

Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.

O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign

Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;

Not like an outcast with himself at strife;

The slave of business, time, or care for life,

But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,

Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;—

To cull contentment upon wildest shores,

And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;

With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,

And having rights in all that we behold.

—Then why these lingering steps?—A bright adieu,

For a brief absence, proves that love is true;

Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn

That winds into itself for sweet return.

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Footnote A:   This first poem referring to the Scottish Tour of 1803, was not actually written till 1811. It originally formed the opening paragraph of the 'Epistle to Sir George Beaumont'. Wordsworth himself dated it 1804. It is every way desirable that it should introduce the series of poems referring to the Tour of 1803.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland:

"William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th."

Ed.

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At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death

Composed 1803^A.—Published 1842

The Poem

[For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It may be proper to add that the second of these pieces, though felt at the time, was not composed till many years after.—I. F.]

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I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,

At thought of what I now behold:

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold

        Strike pleasure dead,

So sadness comes from out the mould

        Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,

And thou forbidden to appear?

As if it were thyself that's here

        I shrink with pain;

And both my wishes and my fear

        Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away

Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;

With chastened feelings would I pay

        The tribute due

To him, and aught that hides his clay

        From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth

He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,

Rose like a star that touching earth,

        For so it seems,

Doth glorify its humble birth

        With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,

The struggling heart, where be they now?—

Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,

        The prompt, the brave,

Slept, with the obscurest, in the low

        And silent grave.

I mourned with thousands, but as one

More deeply grieved, for He was gone

Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

        And showed my youth

How Verse may build a princely throne

        On humble truth.

Alas! where'er the current tends,

Regret pursues and with it blends,—

Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends

        By Skiddaw seen,—

Neighbours we were, and loving friends

        We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;

But heart with heart and mind with mind,

Where the main fibres are entwined,

        Through Nature's skill,

May even by contraries be joined

        More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;

Thou "poor Inhabitant below,"

At this dread moment—even so—

        Might we together

Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

        Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed

Within my reach; of knowledge graced

By fancy what a rich repast!

        But why go on?—

Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,

        His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,

(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)

Lies gathered to his Father's side,

        Soul-moving sight!

Yet one to which is not denied

        Some sad delight.

For

he

is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,

Harboured where none can be misled,

        Wronged, or distrest;

And surely here it may be said

        That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace

Checked oft-times in a devious race,

May He who halloweth the place

        Where Man is laid

Receive thy Spirit in the embrace

        For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,

Music that sorrow comes not near,

        A ritual hymn,

Chanted in love that casts out fear

        By Seraphim.

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But wherefore tremble? 'tis no place

Of pain and sorrow, but of grace,

Of shelter, and of silent peace,

And "friendly aid";

Grasped is he now in that embrace

For which he prayed.^a

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Well might I mourn that He was gone

Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

When, breaking forth as nature's own,

It showed my youth

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Footnote A:   It is dated thus by Wordsworth himself on three occasions, and the year of its composition is also indicated in the title of the poem.—Ed.
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Footnote B:  Compare Burns's poem To a Mountain Daisy, l. 15.—Ed.
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Footnote C:   See Burns's A Bard's Epitaph, l. 19.—Ed.
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Footnote D:  Compare The Tomb of Burns, by William Watson, 1895.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   Criffel.—Ed.
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Footnote F:  Annandale.—Ed.
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Sub-Footnote a:   See in his poem the Ode to Ruin.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of the Tour in Scotland:

"Thursday, August 18th.— Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of Burns's house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed.... Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.

'There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, 'there lies Mr. Such-a-one. I have forgotten his name. A remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.'

We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses.

'Is there a man whose judgment clear,

Can others teach the way to steer,

Yet runs himself life's mad career,

        Wild as the wave?

Here let him pause, and through a tear

        Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

        And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low

        And stained his name.'

"I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains, within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last view we had of them. Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neighbourhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say:

'Seurfell^E from the sky,

That Anadale^F doth crown, with a most amorous eye,

Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,

Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threatening him!'

"These lines recurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, including ourselves in the fancy, that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes."

Ed.

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Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence

Composed 1803.^A—Published 1842

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Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow

Was wreathed—"The Vision" tells us how—

        With holly spray,

He faultered, drifted to and fro,

        And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng

Our minds when, lingering all too long,

Over the grave of Burns we hung

        In social grief—

Indulged as if it were a wrong

        To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

And prompt to welcome every gleam

        Of good and fair,

Let us beside this limpid Stream

        Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;

Think rather of those moments bright

When to the consciousness of right

        His course was true,

When Wisdom prospered in his sight

        And virtue grew.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,

Freely as in youth's season bland,

When side by side, his Book in hand,

        We wont to stray,

Our pleasure varying at command

        Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trod

These pathways, yon far-stretching road!

There lurks his home; in that Abode,

        With mirth elate,

Or in his nobly-pensive mood,

        The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes,

Before it humbly let us pause,

And ask of Nature, from what cause

        And by what rules

She trained her Burns to win applause

        That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen

Are felt the flashes of his pen;

He rules mid winter snows, and when

        Bees fill their hives;

Deep in the general heart of men

        His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime

Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,

And all that fetched the flowing rhyme

        From genuine springs,

Shall dwell together till old Time

        Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven

This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;

The rueful conflict, the heart riven

        With vain endeavour,

And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,

        Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,

When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear

On the frail heart the purest share

        With all that live?—

The best of what we do and are,

        Just God, forgive!

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Footnote A:  Though "suggested" on "the day following," these stanzas were not written then; but "many years after." They must, however, find a place in the "Memorials" of this 1803 Tour in Scotland.—Ed.
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Footnote B:   Burns's poem, thus named.—Ed.
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Note:   See the note to the previous poem. The line

'These pathways, yon far-stretching road!'

refers probably to the road to Brownhill, past Ellisland farmhouse where Burns lived. "The day following" would be Aug. 19th, 1803. The extract which follows from the Journal is a further illustration of the poem. August 8th.

"... Travelled through the vale of Nith, here little like a vale, it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on each side, in outline resembling the old-fashioned valances of a bed. There is a great deal of arable land; the corn ripe; trees here and there—plantations, clumps, coppices, a newness in everything. So much of the gorse and broom rooted out that you wonder why it is not all gone, and yet there seems to be almost as much gorse and broom as corn; and they grow one among another you know not how. Crossed the Nith; the vale becomes narrow, and very pleasant; cornfields, green hills, clay cottages; the river's bed rocky, with woody banks. Left the Nith about a mile and a half, and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn, where we slept. The view from the windows was pleasing, though some travellers might have been disposed to quarrel with it for its general nakedness; yet there was abundance of corn. It is an open country—open, yet all over hills. At a little distance were many cottages among trees, that looked very pretty. Brownhill is about seven or eight miles from Ellisland. I fancied to myself, while I was sitting in the parlour, that Burns might have caroused there, for most likely his rounds extended so far, and this thought gave a melancholy interest to the smoky walls...."

On Dec. 23, 1839, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry Reed, Philadelphia:

"The other day I chanced to be looking over a MS. poem belonging to the year 1803, though not actually composed till many years afterwards. It was suggested by visiting the neighbourhood of Dumfries, in which Burns had resided, and where he died: it concluded thus:

'Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven, etc.'

I instantly added, the other day,

'But why to Him confine the prayer, etc.'

The more I reflect upon this, the more I feel justified in attaching comparatively small importance to any literary monument that I may be enabled to leave behind. It is well however, I am convinced, that men think otherwise in the earlier part of their lives...."

It may be mentioned that in his note to the "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years," (1842), Wordsworth does not quote from the text of his sister's Journal,—which was first published in 1875,—but from some other copy of it.—Ed.

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To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father^A

Composed before 1807^B—Published 1807

The Poem

The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church-yard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses:

'Is there a man whose judgment clear, etc.'

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.—W. W. 1827.^C

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in the 1815 and 1820 editions.—Ed.

The Poem

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'Mid crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

        With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns

        Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill

Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill

        Must ye display;

If ye would give the better will

        Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if the Poet's wit ye share,

        Like him can speed

The social hour—of tenfold care

        There will be need;

For honest men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,—and fool and rake

        Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make

        A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,

And add your voices to the quire

That sanctify the cottage fire

        With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,

        His spirit greet;

Or where,'mid "lonely heights and hows,"

He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

Or wiped his honourable brows

        Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

        Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray

Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;

But ne'er to a seductive lay

        Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray,

        Is light from Heaven."

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

Be independent, generous, brave;

Your Father such example gave,

        And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

        And think, and fear!

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Strong bodied if ye be to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if your Father's wit ye share,

Then, then indeed,

Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care

1807

... for tenfold care

1827

The text of 1827 is otherwise identical with that of 1840.
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Variant 3:  

1840

For honest men delight will take

To shew you favor for his sake,

Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake

1807

For their beloved Poet's sake,

Even honest men delight will take

To flatter you; ...

1820

Even honest Men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,— ...

1827

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Footnote A:   In the edition of 1807, this poem has the title Address to the Sons of Burns after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803). Slight changes were made in the title afterwards.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Dorothy Wordsworth wrote, in her Recollections of this tour, under date August 18th, 1803,

"William wrote long afterwards the following Address to the sons of the ill-fated poet."

Ed.
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Footnote C:   This explanatory note appears in every edition of the Poems from 1827 to 1850. It is taken (but not literally) from the Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland as published in 1875.—Ed.
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Footnote D:  From Burns's Epistle to James Smith, l. 53.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   From Burns's poem, The Vision, Duan Second.—Ed.
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Footnote F:   In the edition of 1807, the poem began with what is now the second stanza, and consisted of four stanzas only, viz. Nos. ii., iii., iv., and viii. Stanzas i., v., vi., and vii. were added in 1827. Stanza iii. was omitted in 1820, but restored in 1827.—Ed.
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Note:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of this Tour we find, under date August 18, 1803:

"The grave of Burns's Son, which we had just seen by the side of his Father, and some stories heard at Dumfries respecting the dangers his surviving children were exposed to, filled us with melancholy concern, which had a kind of connection with ourselves."

"The body of Burns was not allowed to remain long in this place. To suit the plan of a rather showy mausoleum his remains were removed into a more commodious spot of the same kirkyard on the 5th July 1815."—(Allan Cunningham.)

Ellen Irwin; or, the Braes of Kirtle, comes next in this series of "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803." It has already been printed, however, (p. 124), in its proper chronological place, among the poems belonging to the year 1800. —Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

To a Highland Girl

(at Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond)

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

Classed in 1815 and 1820 as one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

[This delightful creature and her demeanour are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. The sort of prophecy with which the verses conclude has, through God's goodness, been realized; and now, approaching the close of my 73rd year, I have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful objects with which she was surrounded. She is alluded to in the poem of 'The Three Cottage Girls' among my Continental Memorials. In illustration of this class of poems I have scarcely anything to say beyond what is anticipated in my Sister's faithful and admirable Journal.—I. F.]

The Poem

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variant

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Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these grey rocks; that household lawn;

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;

This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake;

This little bay; a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy Abode—

In truth together do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream;

Such Forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep!

But, O fair Creature! in the light

Of common day, so heavenly bright,

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart;

God shield thee to thy latest years!

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;

And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray

For thee when I am far away:

For never saw I mien, or face,

In which more plainly I could trace

Benignity and home-bred sense

Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered, like a random seed,

Remote from men, Thou dost not need

The embarrassed look of shy distress,

And maidenly shamefacedness:

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear

The freedom of a Mountaineer:

A face with gladness overspread!

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!

And seemliness complete, that sways

Thy courtesies, about thee plays;

With no restraint, but such as springs

From quick and eager visitings

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach

Of thy few words of English speech:

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife

That gives thy gestures grace and life!

So have I, not unmoved in mind,

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—

Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull

For thee who art so beautiful?

O happy pleasure! here to dwell

Beside thee in some heathy dell;

Adopt your homely ways and dress,

A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!

But I could frame a wish for thee

More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea; and I would have

Some claim upon thee, if I could,

Though but of common neighbourhood.

What joy to hear thee, and to see!

Thy elder Brother I would be,

Thy Father—anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace

Hath led me to this lonely place.

Joy have I had; and going hence

I bear away my recompence.

In spots like these it is we prize

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:

Then, why should I be loth to stir?

I feel this place was made for her;

To give new pleasure like the past,

Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;

For I, methinks, till I grow old,

As fair before me shall behold,

As I do now, the cabin small,

The lake, the bay, the waterfall;

And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 A B

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1837

... this ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1827

In truth together ye do seem

1807

In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem

1837

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1827.
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Variant 3:   The two preceding lines were added in 1845.
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Variant 4:  

1845

Yet, dream and vision ...

1807

... or vision ...

1837

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Variant 5:  

1845

I neither know thee ...

1807

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Variant 6:  

1827

Sweet looks, ...

1807

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Footnote A:  

"The distribution of 'these,' 'that,' and 'those' in these two lines, was attained in 1845, after various changes. "

(Edward Dowden.)
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Virgil's Eclogues, x. 35:

'Atque utinam ex vobis unus, etc.'

Ed.
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Note:   In her Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:

"Sunday, August 28th.—... After long waiting, the girls, who had been on the look-out, informed us that the boat was coming. I went to the waterside, and saw a cluster of people on the opposite shore; but, being yet at a distance, they looked more like soldiers surrounding a carriage than a group of men and women; red and green were the distinguishable colours. We hastened to get ourselves ready as soon as we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than we expected, the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew near we could distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks, and green umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all in motion with small waves, while the swollen waterfall roared in our ears. The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's edge by the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one after another. It did not rain much, but the women held up their umbrellas; they were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and with their scarlet cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch bonnets, made a gay appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the boat, which even imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in its tumult, and the restless grey waves; the young men laughed and shouted, the lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to be in a bustle to be away. I remember well with what haste the mistress of the house where we were ran up to seek after her child, and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly she inquired how we had fared, if we had had a good fire, had been well waited upon, etc. All this in three minutes—for the boatman had another party to bring from the other side, and hurried us off.

"The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. Macfarlane's gave us very favourable impressions on this our first entrance into the Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with their kindness to us, and the beautiful face and figure of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me, a living image as it will be to my dying day. The following poem was written by William not long after our return from Scotland."

Compare the poem called The Three Cottage Girls, in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820," published in 1822.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen

Composed (possibly) in 1803.—Published 1807

Classed in 1815 and 1820 with the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

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In this still place, remote from men,

Sleeps Ossian, in the

Narrow Glen

;

In this still place, where murmurs on

But one meek streamlet, only one:

He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death;

And should, methinks, when all was past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And everything unreconciled;

In some complaining, dim retreat,

For fear and melancholy meet;

But this is calm; there cannot be

A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it?—I blame them not

Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

Was moved; and in such way expressed

Their notion of its perfect rest.

A convent, even a hermit's cell,

Would break the silence of this Dell:

It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:

The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere

Yet happy feelings of the dead:

And, therefore, was it rightly said

That Ossian, last of all his race!

Lies buried in this lonely place.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 A

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... in this ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1827

And ...

1807

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Footnote A:   Compare the poem To the Lady Fleming, stanza iii. ll. 28-9.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In the Statistical Account of Scotland, however—drawn up by the parish ministers of the county, and edited by Sir John Sinclair—both the river and the glen are spelt Almon, by the Rev. Mr. Erskine, who wrote the account of Monzie Parish in Perthshire. This was in 1795. A recent authority states:

"'Glenamon,' in Ayrshire, and 'Glenalmond,' in Perthshire, are both from the corrupted spelling of the word 'Avon,' which derives from its being very nearly the pronunciation of the Gaelic word for 'a river.' These names are from 'Gleann-abhuinn,' that is,'the valley of the river.'"

(See the Gaelic Topography of Scotland, by James A. Robertson, Edinburgh, 1859.)—Ed.
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Note:   The glen is Glenalmond, in Perthshire, between Crieff and Amulree, known locally as "the Sma' Glen." I am not aware that it was ever called "Glen Almain," till Wordsworth gave it that singularly un-Scottish name.^B It must have been a warm August day, after a tract of dry weather, when he went through it, or the Almond would scarcely have been called a "small streamlet." In many seasons of the year the distinctive features of the Glen would be more appropriately indicated by the words, which the poet uses by way of contrast with his own experience of it, viz. a place

'Where sights are rough, and sounds are wild,

And everything unreconciled.'

But his characterization of the place—a glen, the charm of which is little known—in the stillness of an autumn afternoon, is as true to nature as any of his interpretations of the spirit of the hills and vales of Westmoreland. As yet there is no farm-house, scarcely even a sheiling, to "break the silence of this Dell." The following is Dorothy Wordsworth's account of their walk through it on Friday, September 9th, 1803:

"Entered the glen at a small hamlet at some distance from the head, and, turning aside a few steps, ascended a hillock which commanded a view to the top of it—a very sweet scene, a green valley, not very narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, almost invisible in a misty green of afternoon light. At this hamlet we crossed a bridge, and the road led us down the glen, which had become exceedingly narrow, and so continued to the end: the hills on both sides heathy and rocky, very steep, but continuous; the rock not single or overhanging, not scooped into caverns, or sounding with torrents; there are no trees, no houses, no traces of cultivation, not one outstanding object. It is truly a solitude, the road even making it appear still more so; the bottom of the valley is mostly smooth and level, the brook not noisy: everything is simple and undisturbed, and while we passed through it the whole place was shady, cool, clear, and solemn. At the end of the long valley we ascended a hill to a great height, and reached the top, when the sun, on the point of setting, shed a soft yellow light upon every eminence. The prospect was very extensive; over hollows and plains, no towns, and few houses visible—a prospect, extensive as it was, in harmony with the secluded dell, and fixing its own peculiar character of removedness from the world, and the secure possession of the quiet of nature more deeply in our minds. The following poem was written by William on hearing of a tradition relating to it, which we did not know when we were there."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Stepping Westward

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward?"—W. W. 1807.

Classed in 1815 and 1820 among the "Poems of the Imagination." —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

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"

What, you are stepping westward?

"—"

Yea.

"

'Twould be a

wildish

destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange Land, and far from home,

Were in this place the guests of Chance:

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

Though home or shelter he had none,

With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;

Behind, all gloomy to behold;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of

heavenly

destiny:

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound

Of something without place or bound;

And seemed to give me spiritual right

To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake

Was walking by her native lake:

The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy:

Its power was felt; and while my eye

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

The echo of the voice enwrought

A human sweetness with the thought

Of travelling through the world that lay

Before me in my endless way.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 A

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1807

... seemed to me

In MS. letter to Sir G. Beaumont. N. D.

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Footnote A:   Italics were first used in 1855.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is from the Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland:

"Sunday, Sept. 11th.—We have never had a more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond and the three pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond, which we had seen from the garrison, were very majestic under the clear sky, the lake perfectly calm, the air sweet and mild. I felt that it was much more interesting to visit a place where we have been before than it can possibly be the first time, except under peculiar circumstances. The sun had been set for some time, when, being within a quarter of a mile of the ferry man's hut, our path having led us close to the shore of the calm lake, we met two neatly-dressed women, without hats, who had probably been taking their Sunday evening's walk. One of them said to us in a friendly, soft tone of voice, 'What, you are stepping westward?' I cannot describe how affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the western sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun. William wrote the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings and mine."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Solitary Reaper

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820. —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 A

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1807

... singing ...

MS.

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Variant 2:  

1827

So sweetly to reposing bands

1807

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Variant 3:  

1837

No sweeter voice was ever heard

1807

... sound ...

MS.

Such thrilling voice was never heard

1827

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Variant 4:  

1815

... sung

1807

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Variant 5:  

1820

I listen'd till I had my fill:

1807

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Variant 6:  

1807

And when ...

1827

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.
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Footnote A:   Compare The Ancient Mariner(part ii. stanza 6):

'And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:   The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Tour: 13th Sept. 1803.

"As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way being pleasantly varied—through coppices or open fields, and passing farm-houses, though always with an intermixture of cultivated ground. It was harvest-time, and the fields were quietly—might I be allowed to say pensively?—enlivened by small companies of reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a single person so employed. The following poem was suggested to William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's Tour in Scotland."

In a note appended to the editions 1807 to 1820, Wordsworth wrote:

"This Poem was suggested by a beautiful sentence in a MS. 'Tour in Scotland,' written by a Friend, the last line being taken from it verbatim."

The first part of Wilkinson's Tours to the British Mountains, which was published in 1824, narrates his journey in Scotland (it took place in 1787); and the following sentence occurs in the record of his travels near Loch Lomond (p. 12),

"Passed a female who was reaping alone: she sung in Erse, as she bended over her sickle; the sweetest human voice I ever heard: her strains were tenderly melancholy, and felt delicious, long after they were heard no more."

There can be no doubt that this is the sentence referred to both by Dorothy and William Wordsworth. Thomas Wilkinson was the friend, in whose memory Wordsworth wrote the poem To the Spade of a Friend, composed while we were labouring together in his pleasure-ground. They were comparatively near neighbours, as Wilkinson lived near Yanwath on the Emont; and he had given his MS. to the Wordsworth family to read. I have received some additional information about this MS., and Wordsworth's knowledge of it, from Mr. Wilson Robinson, who writes,

"From all the evidence, I conclude that Wilkinson's 'Tour to the Highlands' was shown in manuscript to his friends soon after his return;—that he was not only willing to show it, but even to allow it to be copied, though reluctant to publish it;—that there was sufficient intimacy between him and the Wordsworths to account for his showing or lending the manuscript to them, especially as they had travelled over much of the same ground, and would therefore be more interested in it; and that in fact it was never published till 1824."

When Wordsworth was living at Coleorton during the late autumn of 1806 he wrote to Wilkinson:

"... What shall I say in apology for your Journal, which is now locked up with my manuscripts at Grasmere. As I could not go over to your part of the country myself, my intention was to have taken it with me to Kendal,... to be carefully transmitted to you; unluckily, most unluckily, in the hurry of departure, I forgot it, together with two of my own manuscripts which were along with it; and I am afraid you will be standing in great need of it.... If you do not want it, it is in a place where it can take no injury, and I may have the pleasure of delivering it to you myself in the spring...."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Address to Kilchurn Castle

Upon Loch Awe

Begun 1803.—Published 1827

The Poem

"From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view,—a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it)^A at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the Water,—mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low-grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately—not dismantled of Turrets—nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin."

Extract from the Journal of my Companion.—W. W. 1827.

[The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the Ruin, from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.—I. F.]

The Poem

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Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream

Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are

That touch each other to the quick in modes

Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care

Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire,

Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place

And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem

But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,

Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills

Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)

Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims

To reverence, suspends his own; submitting

All that the God of Nature hath conferred,

All that he holds in common with the stars,

To the memorial majesty of Time

Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!

Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light

Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,

Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule

Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite

To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,

In willing admiration and respect,

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called

Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,

Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

The chronicle were welcome that should call

Into the compass of distinct regard

The toils and struggles of thy infant years!

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;

Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,

Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,

To the perception of this Age, appear

Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued

And quieted in character—the strife,

The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!"

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 B

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... has ...

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1845

... of thy infancy!

1827

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Footnote A:   The clause within brackets was added in 1837.—Ed.
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Footnote B:  The Tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.—W. W. 1827.
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Note:   From the following passage in Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of their Tour, it will be seen that the poet altered the text considerably in making his quotation in 1827: August 31, 1803.

"When we had ascended half-way up the hill, directed by the man, I took a nearer foot-path, and at the top came in view of a most impressive scene, a ruined castle on an island almost in the middle of the last compartment of the lake, backed by a mountain cove, down which came a roaring stream. The castle occupied every foot of the island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water; mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine between; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the castle was wild, yet stately, not dismantled of its turrets, nor the walls broken down, though completely in ruin. After having stood some minutes I joined William on the highroad, and both wishing to stay longer near this place, we requested the man to drive his little boy on to Dalmally, about two miles further, and leave the car at the inn. He told us the ruin was called Kilchurn Castle, that it belonged to Lord Breadalbane, and had been built by one of the ladies of that family for her defence, during her lord's absence at the Crusades; for which purpose she levied a tax of seven years' rent upon her tenants; he said that from that side of the lake it did not appear, in very dry weather, to stand upon an island, but that it was possible to go over to it without being wet-shod. We were very lucky in seeing it after a great flood; for its enchanting effect was chiefly owing to its situation in the lake, a decayed palace rising out of the plain of waters! I have called it a palace, for such feeling it gave me, though having been built as a place of defence, a castle or fortress. We turned again and reascended the hill, and sate a long time in the middle of it looking on the castle, and the huge mountain cove opposite, and William, addressing himself to the ruin, poured out these verses."

Compare Wordsworth's description of this ruin in his Guide through the District of the Lakes.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Rob Roy's Grave

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland. —W. W. 1807.

[I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good authority, namely, that of a well educated Lady who lived at the head of the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood.—I. F.]

In the copy of Rob Roy's Grave, transcribed in Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of the Tour in Scotland of 1803, there are several important variations of text, which occur in none of the printed editions of the poem. These are indicated (to distinguish them from other readings) by the initials D. W.—Ed. One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

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A famous man is Robin Hood,

The English ballad-singer's joy!

And Scotland has a thief as good,

An outlaw of as daring mood;

She has her brave

Rob Roy

!

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,

And let us chant a passing stave,

In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart

And wondrous length and strength of arm:

Nor craved he more to quell his foes,

Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as

wise

as brave;

Forgive me if the phrase be strong;—

A Poet worthy of Rob Roy

Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;

As wise in thought as bold in deed:

For in the principles of things

He

sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, "What need of books?

Burn all the statutes and their shelves:

They stir us up against our kind;

And worse, against ourselves.

"We have a passion—make a law,

Too false to guide us or control!

And for the law itself we fight

In bitterness of soul.

"And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose

Distinctions that are plain and few:

These find I graven on my heart:

That

tells me what to do.

"The creatures see of flood and field,

And those that travel on the wind!

With them no strife can last; they live

In peace, and peace of mind.

"For why?—because the good old rule

Sufficeth them, the simple plan,

That they should take, who have the power,

And they should keep who can.

"A lesson that is quickly learned,

A signal this which all can see!

Thus nothing here provokes the strong

To wanton cruelty.

"All freakishness of mind is checked;

He tamed, who foolishly aspires;

While to the measure of his might

Each fashions his desires.

"All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall

By strength of prowess or of wit:

'Tis God's appointment who must sway,

And who is to submit.

"Since, then, the rule of right is plain,

And longest life is but a day;

To have my ends, maintain my rights,

I'll take the shortest way."

And thus among these rocks he lived,

Through summer heat and winter snow:

The Eagle, he was lord above,

And Rob was lord below.

So was it—

would

, at least, have been

But through untowardness of fate;

For Polity was then too strong—

He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?

For, were the bold Man living

now

,

How might he flourish in his pride,

With buds on every bough!

Then rents and factors, rights of chase,

Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains,

Would all have seemed but paltry things,

Not worth a moment's pains.

Rob Roy had never lingered here,

To these few meagre Vales confined;

But thought how wide the world, the times

How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said,

"Do Thou my sovereign will enact

From land to land through half the earth!

Judge thou of law and fact!

"'Tis fit that we should do our part,

Becoming, that mankind should learn

That we are not to be surpassed

In fatherly concern.

"Of old things all are over old,

Of good things none are good enough:—

We'll show that we can help to frame

A world of other stuff.

"I, too, will have my kings that take

From me the sign of life and death:

Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,

Obedient to my breath."

And, if the word had been fulfilled,

As

might

have been, then, thought of joy!

France would have had her present Boast,

And we our own Rob Roy!

Oh! say not so; compare them not;

I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!

Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all

Here standing by thy grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts

Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!

Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love

The

liberty

of man.

And, had it been thy lot to live

With us who now behold the light,

Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself,

And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor man's stay,

The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;

And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,

Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh

Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays

Alone upon Loch Veol's heights,

And by Loch Lomond's braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,

Are faces that attest the same;

The proud heart flashing through the eyes,

At sound of

Rob Roy's

name.

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1807

And Scotland boasts of one as good,

She has her own Rob Roy.

1803. D.W.

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Variant 2:  

1807

... Outlaw ...

1803. D.W.

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Variant 3:  

1807

... daring ...

1803. D.W.

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Variant 4:   Stanzas 3 and 4 are thus combined by D. W., and also in a printed (not published) version, given in a copy of the 1807 edition.

1807

Yet Robin was as wise as brave,

As wise in thought as bold in deed,

For in the principles of things

He sought his moral creed.

return

Variant 5:  

1827

... which ...

1807

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Variant 6:  

1807

... tyrannous ...

1803. D. W.

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Variant 7:  

1807

And freakishness ...

1803. D. W.

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Variant 8:  

1807

... their ...

MS.

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Variant 9:  

1807

All fashion their desires.

1803. D. W.

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Variant 10:  

1815

"Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,

1807

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Variant 11:  

1827

Through summer's heat and winter's snow:

1807

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Variant 12:  

1807

The Rents and Land-marks, Rights of Chase,

Sheriffs and Factors, Lairds and Thanes,

1803. D. W.

Sheriffs and Factors, rights of chase,

Their Lairds, and their domains,

MS.

return


Variant 13:  

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... our brave ...

1807

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Variant 14:  

1815

For Robin was ...

1807

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Variant 15:  

1815

Had Robin's to command.

1807

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Variant 16:  

1827

Kindling with instantaneous joy

1803. D.W.

And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,

1807

return

Footnote A:   The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that "he could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright." According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman; after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was never conquered but once, and this not till he was an Old Man.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark

Note:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Scotch Tour the following occurs:

"August 27, 1803.—We mentioned Rob Roy, and the eyes of all glistened; even the lady of the house, who was very diffident, and no great talker, exclaimed, 'He was a good man, Rob Roy! he had been dead only about eighty years, had lived in the next farm, which belonged to him, and there his bones were laid.' He was a famous swordsman. Having an arm much longer than other men, he had a greater command with his sword. As a proof of the length of his arm, they told us that he could garter his tartan stockings below the knee without stooping, and added a dozen different stories of single combats, which he had fought, all in perfect good humour, merely to prove his prowess. I daresay they had stories of this kind which would hardly have been exhausted in the long evenings of a whole December week, Rob Roy being as famous here as even Robin Hood was in the forest of Sherwood; he also robbed from the rich, giving to the poor, and defending them from oppression. They tell of his confining the factor of the Duke of Montrose in one of the islands of Loch Ketterine, after having taken his money from him—the Duke's rents—in open day, while they were sitting at table. He was a formidable enemy of the Duke, but being a small laird against a greater, was overcome at last, and forced to resign all his lands on the Braes of Loch Lomond, including the caves which we visited, on account of the money he had taken from the Duke and could not repay."

September 12:

"Descended into Glengyle, above Loch Ketterine, and passed through Mr. Macfarlane's grounds, that is, through the whole of the glen, where there was now no house left but his. We stopped at his door to inquire after the family, though with little hope of finding them at home, having seen a large company at work in a hay-field, whom we conjectured to be his whole household, as it proved, except a servant-maid who answered our enquiries. We had sent the ferryman forward from the head of the glen to bring the boat round from the place where he left it to the other side of the lake. Passed the same farm-house we had such good reason to remember, and went up to the burying-ground that stood so sweetly near the water-side. The ferryman had told us that Rob Roy's grave was there, so we could not pass on without going up to the spot. There were several tombstones, but the inscriptions were either worn-out or unintelligible to us, and the place choked up with nettles and brambles. You will remember the description I have given of the spot. I have nothing here to add, except the following poem which it suggested to William."

Rob Roy was buried at the Kirkton of Balquhidder, near the outlet of Loch Voil in Perthshire. There are three sculptured stones in the rude burial-place of the Macgregors, at the eastern end of the old church. The one with the long claymore marks the resting-place of Rob Roy's wife; the one opposite on the other side is the tomb of his eldest son; and the central stone, more elaborately carved, marks the grave of the hero himself.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Sonnet composed at —— Castle

Composed September 18, 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[The castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told to me by Walter Scott.—I. F.]

In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!

Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,

And love of havoc, (for with such disease

Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word

To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable Trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,

Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored

The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain

The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze

On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,

And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,

And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

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1807

Now as I live, I pity that great Lord,

Whom pure despite ...

MS. letter to Sir Walter Scott. Oct. 1803.

Ill wishes shall attend the unworthy Lord

MS.

return

Note:  

"Sunday, September 18th.—After breakfast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill, over-looking the Tweed, a strong square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate, though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the high walls that fenced it broken down. The Tweed winds between green steeps, upon which, and close to the river side, large flocks of sheep pasturing; higher still are the grey mountains; but I need not describe the scene, for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he wrote the same day; the five last lines, at least, of his poem will impart to you more of the feeling of the place than it would be possible for me to do."

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland.) Writing to Sir Walter Scott (October 16, 1803), Wordsworth enclosed a copy of this sonnet, with the variation of text which has been quoted. Lockhart tells us

"in that original shape Scott always recited it, and few lines in the language were more frequently in his mouth."

Compare Burns' Verses on the destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig, which refer to the same subject.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Yarrow Unvisited

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"

W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

From Stirling castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled;

And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my "

winsome Marrow

,"

"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,

And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk,

frae

Selkirk town,

Who have been buying, selling,

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;

Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

But we will downward with the Tweed,

Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:

Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow?

"What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;

My True-love sighed for sorrow;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;

The swan on still St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swan and shadow!

We will not see them; will not go,

To-day, nor yet to-morrow;

Enough if in our hearts we know

There's such a place as Yarrow.

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!

It must, or we shall rue it:

We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!

For when we're there, although 'tis fair,

'Twill be another Yarrow.

"If Care with freezing years should come,

And wandering seem but folly,—

Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny holms of Yarrow!"

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 A B

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... downwards ...

1807

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Footnote A:   See Hamilton's Ballad as above.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In his Recollections of Wordsworth, Aubrey de Vere reports a conversation, in which the poet said to him,

"Scott misquoted in one of his novels my lines on Yarrow, He makes me write,

'The swans on sweet St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swans and shadow;'

but I wrote,

'The swan on still St. Mary's Lake.'

Never could I have written 'swans' in the plural. The scene when I saw it, with its still and dim lake, under the dusky hills, was one of utter loneliness: there was one swan, and one only, stemming the water, and the pathetic loneliness of the region gave importance to the one companion of that swan, its own white image in the water. It was for that reason that I recorded the Swan and the Shadow. Had there been many swans and many shadows, they would have implied nothing as regards the character of the place; and I should have said nothing about them."

See his Essays, chiefly on Poetry, vol. ii. p. 277. Wordsworth wrote to his friend, Walter Scott, to thank him for a copy of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, and in return sent a copy of these stanzas, Yarrow Unvisited. Scott replied gratefully on the 16th March 1805, and said,

"... I by no means admit your apology, however ingeniously and artfully stated, for not visiting the bonny holms of Yarrow, and certainly will not rest till I have prevailed upon you to compare the ideal with the real stream."

Wordsworth had asked him if he could suggest any name more true to the place than Burnmill, in the line, "The sweets of Burn-mill meadow." Scott replied:

"We have Broad-meadow upon Yarrow, which with the addition of green or fair or any other epithet of one syllable, will give truth to the locality, and supply the place of Burnmill meadow, which we have not. ... I like your swan upon St. Mary's Lake. How came you to know that it is actually frequented by that superb bird?"

(See Familiar Letters of Sir Walter Scott, vol. i. pp. 28, 29.)—Ed.
return


Note:  

"September 18, 1803.—We left the Tweed when we were within about a mile and a half or two miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we reached the spot—a single stone house, without a tree near it or to be seen from it. On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name, the woman of the house showed us all possible civility, but her slowness was really amusing. I should suppose it a house little frequented, for there is no appearance of an inn. Mr. Scott, who she told me was a very clever gentleman, 'goes there in the fishing season;' but indeed Mr. Scott is respected everywhere; I believe that by favour of his name one might be hospitably entertained throughout all the borders of Scotland. We dined and drank tea—did not walk out, for there was no temptation; a confined barren prospect from the window.

"At Clovenford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could not but think of the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of reserving the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which, after our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here transcribe."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.—W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,

And call a train of laughing Hours;

And bid them dance, and bid them sing;

And thou, too, mingle in the ring!

Take to thy heart a new delight;

If not, make merry in despite

That there is One who scorns thy power:—

But dance! for under Jedborough Tower,

A Matron dwells who, though she bears

The weight of more than seventy years,

Lives in the light of youthful glee,

And she will dance and sing with thee.

Nay! start not at that Figure—there!

Him who is rooted to his chair!

Look at him—look again! for he

Hath long been of thy family.

With legs that move not, if they can,

And useless arms, a trunk of man,

He sits, and with a vacant eye;

A sight to make a stranger sigh!

Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:

His world is in this single room:

Is this a place for mirthful cheer?

Can merry-making enter here?

The joyous Woman is the Mate

Of him in that forlorn estate!

He breathes a subterraneous damp;

But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:

He is as mute as Jedborough Tower:

She jocund as it was of yore,

With all its bravery on; in times

When all alive with merry chimes,

Upon a sun-bright morn of May,

It roused the Vale to holiday.

I praise thee, Matron! and thy due

Is praise, heroic praise, and true!

With admiration I behold

Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:

Thy looks, thy gestures, all present

The picture of a life well spent:

This do I see; and something more;

A strength unthought of heretofore!

Delighted am I for thy sake;

And yet a higher joy partake:

Our Human-nature throws away

Its second twilight, and looks gay;

A land of promise and of pride

Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed

Within himself as seems, composed;

To fear of loss, and hope of gain,

The strife of happiness and pain,

Utterly dead! yet in the guise

Of little infants, when their eyes

Begin to follow to and fro

The persons that before them go,

He tracks her motions, quick or slow.

Her buoyant spirit can prevail

Where common cheerfulness would fail;

She strikes upon him with the heat

Of July suns; he feels it sweet;

An animal delight though dim!

'Tis all that now remains for him!

The more I looked, I wondered more—

And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er,

Some inward trouble suddenly

Broke from the Matron's strong black eye—

A remnant of uneasy light,

A flash of something over-bright!

Nor long this mystery did detain

My thoughts;—she told in pensive strain

That she had borne a heavy yoke,

Been stricken by a twofold stroke;

Ill health of body; and had pined

Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

So be it!—but let praise ascend

To Him who is our lord and friend!

Who from disease and suffering

Hath called for thee a second spring;

Repaid thee for that sore distress

By no untimely joyousness;

Which makes of thine a blissful state;

And cheers thy melancholy Mate!

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 A B

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1827

For ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1837

... under Jedborough Tower

There liveth in the prime of glee,

A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,

And She ...

1807

There lives a woman of seventy-three,

And she will dance and sing with thee,

MS.

A Matron dwells, who though she bears

Our mortal complement of years,

Lives in the light of youthful glee,

1827

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Variant 3:  

1827

... for mirth and cheer?

1807

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Variant 4:  

1827

I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;

The more I look'd I wonder'd more:

1807

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Variant 5:  

1837

When suddenly I seem'd to espy

A trouble in her strong black eye;

1807

A moment gave me to espy

A trouble ...

1827

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Variant 6:  

1827

And soon she made this matter plain;

And told me, in a thoughtful strain,

1807

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Variant 7:  

As bad almost as Life can bring,

Added in MS.

return

Footnote A:   Compare Tennyson's Deserted House, stanza iv.:

'Come away: no more of mirth

Is here, or merry-making sound.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare stanza xiii. of Resolution and Independence, p. 318.—Ed.
return

Note:   Sept. 20, 1803.

"We were received with hearty welcome by a good woman, who, though above seventy years old, moved about as briskly as if she was only seventeen. Those parts of the house which we were to occupy were neat and clean; she showed me every corner, and, before I had been ten minutes in the house, opened her very drawers that I might see what a stock of linen she had; then asked how long we should stay, and said she wished we were come for three months. She was a most remarkable person; the alacrity with which she ran up-stairs when we rung the bell, and guessed at, and strove to prevent, our wants was surprising; she had a quick eye, and keen strong features, and a joyousness in her motions, like what used to be in old Molly when she was particularly elated. I found afterwards that she had been subject to fits of dejection and ill-health: we then conjectured that her overflowing gaiety and strength might in part be attributed to the same cause as her former dejection. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sate in a chair with scarcely the power to move a limb—an affecting contrast! The old woman said they had been a very hard-working pair; they had wrought like slaves at their trade—her husband had been a currier; and she told me how they had portioned off their daughters with money, and each a feather bed, and that in their old age they had laid out the little they could spare in building and furnishing that house, and she added with pride that she had lived in her youth in the family of Lady Egerton, who was no high lady, and now was in the habit of coming to her house whenever she was at Jedburgh, and a hundred other things; for when she once began with Lady Egerton, she did not know how to stop, nor did I wish it, for she was very entertaining. Mr. Scott sat with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone our hostess came to see if we wanted anything, and to wish us good-night. On all occasions her manners were governed by the same spirit: there was no withdrawing one's attention from her. We were so much interested that William, long afterwards, thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations which she had excited, and which then remained as vividly in his mind as at the moment when we lost sight of Jedburgh."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

"Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"^A

Composed September 25, 1803.—Published 1815

The Poem

[This was actually composed the last day of our tour between Dalston and Grasmere.—I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" in 1815 and 1820. —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!

Say that we come, and come by this day's light;

Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,

But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;

There let a mystery of joy prevail,

The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,

And Rover whine, as at a second sight

Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:

And from that Infant's face let joy appear;

Yea, let our Mary's one companion child—

That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled

With intimations manifold and dear,

While we have wandered over wood and wild—

Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3

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Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!

1815

... dale,

1827

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Variant 2:  

1837

Glad tidings!—spread them over field and height;

1815

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Variant 3:  

1837

The Kitten frolic with unruly might,

1815

The happy Kitten bound with frolic might,

1827

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Footnote A:   In the editions of 1815 and 1820, this poem bore the title, On approaching Home, after a Tour in Scotland, 1803,—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:  

"Sunday, September 25, 1803.—A beautiful autumnal day. Breakfasted at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Blind Highland Boy

A Tale Told by the Fire-side, after Returning to the Vale of Grasmere^A

Date of composition uncertain.—Published 1807

The Poem

[The story was told me by George Mackereth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shores of the Loch.—I.F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

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Now we are tired of boisterous joy,

Have romped enough, my little Boy!

Jane hangs her head upon my breast,

And you shall bring your stool and rest;

This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see

That you can listen quietly:

And, as I promised, I will tell

That strange adventure which befel

A poor blind Highland Boy.

A

Highland

Boy!—why call him so?

Because, my Darlings, ye must know

That, under hills which rise like towers,

Far higher hills than these of ours!

He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight

The sun, the day; the stars, the night;

Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,

Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,

Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,

Nor had a melancholy mind;

For God took pity on the Boy,

And was his friend; and gave him joy

Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above

Her other children him did love:

For, was she here, or was she there,

She thought of him with constant care,

And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad

In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,

And bonnet with a feather gay,

To Kirk he on the sabbath day

Went hand in hand with her.

A dog too, had he; not for need,

But one to play with and to feed;

Which would have led him, if bereft

Of company or friends, and left

Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow—

And thus from house to house would go;

And all were pleased to hear and see,

For none made sweeter melody

Than did the poor blind Boy.

Yet he had many a restless dream;

Both when he heard the eagles scream,

And when he heard the torrents roar,

And heard the water beat the shore

Near which their cottage stood.

Beside a lake their cottage stood,

Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;

But one of mighty size, and strange;

That, rough or smooth, is full of change,

And stirring in its bed.

For to this lake, by night and day,

The great Sea-water finds its way

Through long, long windings of the hills

And drinks up all the pretty rills

And rivers large and strong:

Then hurries back the road it came—

Returns, on errand still the same;

This did it when the earth was new;

And this for evermore will do,

As long as earth shall last.

And, with the coming of the tide,

Come boats and ships that safely ride

Between the woods and lofty rocks;

And to the shepherds with their flocks

Bring tales of distant lands.

And of those tales, whate'er they were,

The blind Boy always had his share;

Whether of mighty towns, or vales

With warmer suns and softer gales,

Or wonders of the Deep.

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,

When from the water-side he heard

The shouting, and the jolly cheers;

The bustle of the mariners

In stillness or in storm.

But what do his desires avail?

For He must never handle sail;

Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float

In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat,

Upon the rocking waves.

His Mother often thought, and said,

What sin would be upon her head

If she should suffer this: "My Son,

Whate'er you do, leave this undone;

The danger is so great."

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side

Still sounding with the sounding tide,

And heard the billows leap and dance,

Without a shadow of mischance,

Till he was ten years old.

When one day (and now mark me well,

Ye soon shall know how this befell)

He in a vessel of his own,

On the swift flood is hurrying down,

Down to the mighty Sea.

In such a vessel never more

May human creature leave the Shore!

If this or that way he should stir,

Woe to the poor blind Mariner!

For death will be his doom.

But say what bears him?—Ye have seen

The Indian's bow, his arrows keen,

Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;

Gifts which, for wonder or delight,

Are brought in ships from far.

Such gifts had those seafaring men

Spread round that haven in the glen;

Each hut, perchance, might have its own;

And to the Boy they all were known—

He knew and prized them all.

The rarest was a Turtle-shell

Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

A shell of ample size, and light

As the pearly car of Amphitrite,

That sportive dolphins drew.

And, as a Coracle that braves

On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,

This shell upon the deep would swim,

And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing surge.

And this the little blind Boy knew:

And he a story strange yet true

Had heard, how in a shell like this

An English Boy, O thought of bliss!

Had stoutly launched from shore;

Launched from the margin of a bay

Among the Indian isles, where lay

His father's ship, and had sailed far—

To join that gallant ship of war,

In his delightful shell.

Our Highland Boy oft visited

'The house that held this prize; and, led

By choice or chance, did thither come

One day when no one was at home,

And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate, alone and blind,

That story flashed upon his mind;—

A bold thought roused him, and he took

The shell from out its secret nook,

And bore it on his head.

He launched his vessel,—and in pride

Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side,

Stepped into it—his thoughts all free

As the light breezes that with glee

Sang through the adventurer's hair.

A while he stood upon his feet;

He felt the motion—took his seat;

Still better pleased as more and more

The tide retreated from the shore,

And sucked, and sucked him in.

And there he is in face of Heaven.

How rapidly the Child is driven!

The fourth part of a mile, I ween,

He thus had gone, ere he was seen

By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me

What shrieking and what misery!

For many saw; among the rest

His Mother, she who loved him best,

She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the child, the sightless Boy,

It is the triumph of his joy!

The bravest traveller in balloon,

Mounting as if to reach the moon,

Was never half so blessed.

And let him, let him go his way,

Alone, and innocent, and gay!

For, if good Angels love to wait

On the forlorn unfortunate,

This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,

Which from the crowd on shore was sent,

The cries which broke from old and young

In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

Are stifled—all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew

A boat is ready to pursue;

And from the shore their course they take,

And swiftly down the running lake

They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace;

So have ye seen the fowler chase

On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast

A youngling of the wild-duck's nest

With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept

To seize (while on the Deep it slept)

The hapless creature which did dwell

Erewhile within the dancing shell,

They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made,

They follow, more and more afraid,

More cautious as they draw more near;

But in his darkness he can hear,

And guesses their intent.

"

Lei-gha—Lei-gha

"—he then cried out,

"

Lei-gha—Lei-gha

"—with eager shout;

Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,

And what he meant was, "Keep away,

And leave me to myself!"

Alas! and when he felt their hands—

You've often heard of magic wands,

That with a motion overthrow

A palace of the proudest show,

Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams—that inward light

With which his soul had shone so bright—

All vanished;—'twas a heartfelt cross

To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice,

With which the very hills rejoice:

'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly

Have watched the event, and now can see

That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,

Full sure they were a happy band,

Which, gathering round, did on the banks

Of that great Water give God thanks,

And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart

The blind Boy's little dog took part;

He leapt about, and oft did kiss

His master's hands in sign of bliss,

With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,

She who had fainted with her fear,

Rejoiced when waking she espies

The Child; when she can trust her eyes,

And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,

When he was in the house again:

Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;

She kissed him—how could she chastise?

She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved

The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;

And, though his fancies had been wild,

Yet he was pleased and reconciled

To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell

Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;

And long the story will repeat

Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,

And how he was preserved.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 B C D E

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Variant 1:  

1827

We've ...

1807

return


Variant 2:  

1807

How ...

MS.

return


Variant 3:  

1807

Aye, willingly, and what is more

One which you never heard before,

True story this which I shall tell

MS.

return


Variant 4:  

1837

In land where many a mountain towers,

1807

return


Variant 5:  

1807

... could ...

MS.

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Variant 6:  

1827

... sweetly ...

1807

return


Variant 7:  

1815

You ...

1807

return


Variant 8:  

1837

He's in a vessel of his own,

On the swift water hurrying down

Towards the mighty Sea.

1807

He in a vessel of his own,

On the swift flood is hurrying down

1827

Towards the great, great Sea.

MS.

return


Variant 9:  

1815

... ne'er before

Did human Creature ...

1807

return


Variant 10:  

The following stanza was only in the edition of 1807:

Strong is the current; but be mild,

Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!

If ye in anger fret or chafe,

A Bee-hive would be ship as safe

As that in which he sails.

return


Variant 11:  

1815

But say, what was it? Thought of fear!

Well may ye tremble when ye hear!

—A Household Tub, like one of those,

Which women use to wash their clothes,

This carried the blind Boy.

1807

return


Variant 12:  

1820

And one, the rarest, was a Shell

Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

The Shell of a green Turtle, thin

And hollow;—you might sit therein.

It was so wide and deep.

1815

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Variant 13:  

1820

'Twas even the largest of its kind,

Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind;

So light a Shell that it would swim,

And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing waves.

1815

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Variant 14:  

1837

... which ...

1815

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Variant 15:  

1827

... in his arms.

1815

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Variant 16:  

1827

Close to the water he had found

This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,

Went into it; and, without dread,

Following the fancies in his head,

He paddled up and down.

1807

And with the happy burthen hied,

And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,—

Stepped into it; and, without dread,

1815

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Variant 17:  

1827

And dallied thus, till from the shore

The tide retreating more and more

Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.

1807

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Variant 18:   The two previous stanzas were added in the edition of 1815.
return


Variant 19:  

1837

... then did he cry

... most eagerly;

1807

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Variant 20:  

1807

... read ...

MS.

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Variant 21:  

1837

Had ...

1807

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Variant 22:  

1832

She could not blame him, or chastise;

1807

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Variant 23:   This stanza was added in the edition of 1815.
return

Footnote A:   The title in the editions of 1807 to 1820 was The Blind Highland Boy. (A Tale told by the Fireside.)

This poem gave its title to a separate division in the second volume of the edition of 1807, viz. "The Blind Highland Boy; with other Poems."—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  This reading occurs in all the editions. But Wordsworth, whose MS. was not specially clear, may have written, or meant to write "petty," (a much better word), and not perceived the mistake when revising the sheets. If he really wrote "petty," he may have meant either small rills (rillets), or used the word as Shakespeare used it, for "pelting" rills.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:   Compare Tennyson's In Memoriam, stanza xix.:

'There twice a day the Severn fills;

The salt sea-water passes by,

And hushes half the babbling Wye,

And makes a silence in the hills, etc.'

Ed.
return


Footnote D:   This and the following six stanzas were added in 1815.—Ed.
return


Footnote E:   Writing to Walter Scott, from Coleorton, on Jan. 20, 1807, Wordsworth sent him this stanza of the poem, and asked

"Could you furnish me, by application to any of your Gaelic friends, a phrase in that language which could take its place in the following verse of eight syllables, and have the following meaning."

He adds,

"The above is part of a little poem which I have written on a Highland story told me by an eye-witness ..."

This is the nearest clue we have to the date of the composition of the poem.—Ed.
return

Note:   It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of a Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell and floated in it from the shore to his Father's Ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. Upon the suggestion of a Friend, I have substituted such a Shell for that less elegant vessel in which my blind voyager did actually intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Levin, as was related to me by an Eye-witness.—W. W. 1815.

This note varies slightly in later editions. The Loch Leven referred to is a sea-loch in Argyllshire, into which the tidal water flows with some force from Loch Linnhe at Ballachulish.

'By night and day

The great Sea-water finds its way

Through long, long windings of the hills.'

The friend referred to in the note of 1815, who urged Wordsworth to give his blind voyager a Shell, instead of a washing-tub to sail in, was Coleridge. The original tale of the tub was not more unfortunate than the lines in praise of Wilkinson's spade, and several of Wordsworth's friends, notably Charles Lamb and Barren Field, objected to the change. Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815,

"I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast" [i. e. the reviewer!] "or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could fairly be said against it. You say you made the alteration for the 'friendly reader,' but the 'malicious' will take it to himself."

(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 283.) Wordsworth could not be induced to "undo his work," and go back to his own original; although he evidently agreed with what Lamb had said (as is seen in a letter to Barren Field, Oct. 24, 1828).—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near a Deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands^A at Rydal

Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem

Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones

Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,

Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn

Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more

Than the rude embryo of a little Dome

Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built

Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.

But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned

That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,

And make himself a freeman of this spot

At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight

Desisted, and the quarry and the mound

Are monuments of his unfinished task.

The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,

Was once selected as the corner-stone

Of that intended Pile, which would have been

Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,

So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,

And other little builders who dwell here,

Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,

For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,

Bred in this vale, to which he appertained

With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,

And for the outrage which he had devised

Entire forgiveness!—But if thou art one

On fire with thy impatience to become

An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed

By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn

Out of the quiet rock the elements

Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze

In snow-white splendour,—think again; and, taught

By old Sir William and his quarry, leave

Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;

There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,

And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.

Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 B

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Variant 1:  

1837

Is not a ruin of the ancient time,

1800

... antique ...

MS.

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Variant 2:  

1802

... which was to have been built

1800

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Variant 3:  

1800

Of some old British warrior: so, to speak

The honest truth, 'tis neither more nor less

Than the rude germ of what was to have been

A pleasure-house, and built upon this isle.

MS.

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Variant 4:  

1837

... the Knight forthwith

1800

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Variant 5:  

1837

Of the ...

1800

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Variant 6:  

1800

Bred here, and to this valley appertained

MS. 1798.

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Variant 7:  

1800

... glory, ...

1802

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return

Footnote A:   In a MS. copy this is given as "the lesser Island."—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Wordsworth's

"objections to white, as a colour, in large spots or masses in landscape,"

in his Guide through the district of the Lakes (section third).—Ed.
return

1798 Contents
Main Contents

end of Volume II: 1798

→

1799 Main Contents

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Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1803

Edited by William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

• 1803
• • The Green Linnet
  • Yew-Trees
  • "Who fancied what a pretty sight"
  • "It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"
  • Memorials of a Tour in Scotland
  • • Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)
    • At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death
    • Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence
    • To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father
    • To a Highland Girl
    • Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen
    • Stepping Westward
    • The Solitary Reaper
    • Address to Kilchurn Castle
    • Rob Roy's Grave
    • Sonnet composed at —— Castle
    • Yarrow Unvisited
    • The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband
    • "Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"
    • The Blind Highland Boy
  • October, 1803
  • "There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear"
  • October, 1803 (2)
  • "England! the time is come when thou should'st wean"
  • October, 1803 (3)
  • To the Men of Kent. October, 1803
  • In the Pass of Killicranky
  • Anticipation. October, 1803
  • Lines on the Expected Invasion, 1803

1803

The poems associated with the year 1803 consist mainly of the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland," which Wordsworth and his sister took—along with Coleridge—in the autumn of that year, although many of these were not written till some time after the Tour was finished. The Green Linnet and Yew-trees were written in 1803, and some sonnets were composed in the month of October; but, on the whole, 1803 was not a fruitful year in Wordsworth's life, as regards his lyrics and smaller poems. Doubtless both The Prelude and The Excursion were revised in 1803.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Green Linnet

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where the bird was often seen as here described.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow white blossoms on my head,

With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet

To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,

Make all one band of paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment:

A Life, a Presence like the Air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,

Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings

Upon his back and body flings

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A Brother of the dancing leaves;

Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4

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Variant 1:  

1827

The May is come again:—how sweet

To sit upon my Orchard-seat!

And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,

My last year's Friends together:

My thoughts they all by turns employ;

A whispering Leaf is now my joy,

And then a Bird will be the toy

That doth my fancy tether.

1807

And Flowers and Birds once more to greet,

1815

The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1827.
return


Variant 2:  

1845

Upon ...

1807

return


Variant 3:  

1845

While thus before my eyes he gleams,

A Brother of the Leaves he seems;

When in a moment forth he teems

His little song in gushes:

1807

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,

A Bird so like the dancing Leaves;

Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

1827

My dazzled sight the Bird deceives,

A Brother of the dancing Leaves;

1832

The Bird my dazzled sight deceives,

1840

The Bird my dazzling sight deceives

C.

return


Variant 4:  

1827

As if it pleas'd him to disdain

And mock the Form which he did feign,

While he was dancing with the train

Of Leaves among the bushes.

1807

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

1820

return

Note:   Of all Wordsworth's poems this is the one most distinctively associated with the Orchard, at Town-end, Grasmere. Dorothy Wordsworth writes in her Journal under date May 28th, 1802:

"We sat in the orchard. The young bull-finches in their pretty coloured raiment, bustle about among the blossoms, and poise themselves like wire-dancers or tumblers, shaking the twigs and dashing off the blossoms."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Yew-Trees

Composed 1803.—Published 1815

The Poem

[Written at Grasmere. These Yew-trees are still standing, but the spread of that at Lorton is much diminished by mutilation. I will here mention that a little way up the hill, on the road leading from Rosthwaite to Stonethwaite (in Borrowdale) lay the trunk of a Yew-tree, which appeared as you approached, so vast was its diameter, like the entrance of a cave, and not a small one. Calculating upon what I have observed of the slow growth of this tree in rocky situations, and of its durability, I have often thought that the one I am describing must have been as old as the Christian era. The Tree lay in the line of a fence. Great masses of its ruins were strewn about, and some had been rolled down the hillside and lay near the road at the bottom. As you approached the tree, you were struck with the number of shrubs and young plants, ashes, etc., which had found a bed upon the decayed trunk and grew to no inconsiderable height, forming, as it were, a part of the hedgerow. In no part of England, or of Europe, have I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude, as it must have stood. By the bye, Hutton, the old guide, of Keswick, had been so impressed with the remains of this tree, that he used gravely to tell strangers that there could be no doubt of its having been in existence before the flood.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary Tree! a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane;—a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

Perennially—beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries—ghostly Shapes

May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton

And Time the Shadow;—there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents

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Note:   The text of this poem was never altered. The Lorton Yew-tree—which, in 1803, was "of vast circumference," the "pride of Lorton Vale," and described as:

'a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed—'

does not now verify its poet's prediction of the future. Mr. Wilson Robinson of Whinfell Hall, Cockermouth, wrote to me of it in May 1880:

"The tree in outline expanded towards the root considerably: then, at about two feet from the ground, the trunk began to separate into huge limbs, spreading in all directions. I once measured this trunk at its least circumference, and found it 23 feet 10 inches. For the last 50 or 60 years the branches have been gradually dying on the S. E. side, and about 25 years ago a strong S. E. gale, coming with accumulated force down Hope Gill, and—owing to the tree being so open on that side—taking it laterally at a disadvantage, wrenched off one of the great side branches down to the ground, carrying away nearly a third of the tree. This event led to farther peril; for, the second portion having been sold to a cabinetmaker at Whitehaven for #15, this gave the impression that the wood was very valuable (owing to the celebrity of the tree); and a local woodmonger bought the remainder. Two men worked half a day to grub it up; but a Cockermouth medical gentleman, hearing what was going on, made representations to the owner, and it ended in the woodmen sparing the remainder of the tree, which was not much the worse for what had been done. Many large dead branches have also been cut off, and now we have to regret that the 'pride of Lorton Vale,' shorn of its ancient dignity, is but a ruin, much more venerable than picturesque."

The "fraternal Four of Borrowdale" are certainly "worthier still of note." The "trunk" described in the Fenwick note, as on the road between Rosthwaite and Stonethwaite, has disappeared long ago; but the "solemn and capacious grove" existed till 1883 in its integrity. The description in the poem is realistic throughout, while the visible scene suggests

"an ideal grove, in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which they dimly listen."

(Stopford A. Brooke, in Theology in the English Poets, p. 259.) With the first part of the poem Wordsworth's Sonnet composed at —— Castle during the Scotch Tour of 1803 may be compared (p. 410). For a critical estimate of the poem see Modern Painters, part III. sec. II, chap. iv. Ruskin alludes to "the real and high action of the imagination in Wordsworth's Yew-trees (perhaps the most vigorous and solemn bit of forest landscape ever painted). It is too long to quote, but the reader should refer to it: let him note especially, if painter, that pure touch of colour, 'by sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged.'" See also Coleridge's criticism in Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. p. I77, edition 1847, and his daughter Sara's comment on her father's note. There can be little doubt that, as Professor Dowden has suggested, the lines 23 to 28 were suggested to Wordsworth by Virgil's lines in the Sixth Book of the Æneid, 273-284:

'Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci

Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curæ;

Pallentesque habitant Morbi, tristisque Senectus,

Et Metus, et malesuada Fames, ac turpis Egestas,

Terribiles visu formæ, Letumque, Labosque;

Tum consanguineus Leti Sopor, et mala mentis

Gaudia, mortiferumque adverso in limine Bellum,

Ferreique Eumenidum thalami, et Discordia demens,

Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis.

In medio ramos annosaque bracchia pandit

Ulmus opaca, ingens, quam sedem Somnia volgo

Vana tenere ferunt, foliisque sub omnibus hærent.'

"The 'Four Yew Trees,' and the mysterious company which you have assembled there, 'Death the Skeleton and Time the Shadow.' It is a sight not for every youthful poet to dream of; it is one of the last results he must have gone thinking for years for."

(Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, 1815.) In Crabb Robinson's Diary, a reference to the Yew-trees of Lorton and Borrowdale will be found under date Sept. 16 and 20, 1816.

"The pride of Lorton Vale" is now a ruin, and has lost all its ancient majesty: but, until the close of 1883, the "fraternal four" of Borrowdale were still to be seen "in grand assemblage." Every one who has felt the power of Wordsworth's poetry,—and especially those who had visited the Seathwaite valley, and read the Yew-Trees under the shade of that once "solemn and capacious grove" before 1884,—must have felt as if they had lost a personal friend, when they heard that the "grove" was gone. The great gale of December 11, 1883, smote it fiercely, uprooting one of the trees, and blowing the others to ribbands. The following is Mr. Rawnsley's account of the disaster:

'Last week the gale that ravaged England did the Lake country much harm. We could spare many of the larch plantations, and could hear (with a sigh) of the fall of the giant Scotch firs opposite the little Scafell Inn at Rosthwaite, and that Watendlath had lost its pines; but who could spare those ancient Yews, the great

"... fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved."

'For beneath their pillared shade since Wordsworth wrote his poem, that Yew-tree grove has suggested to many a wanderer up Borrowdale, and visitant to the Natural Temple,

"an ideal grove in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which they dimly listen."

'These Yew-trees, seemingly

"Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed,"

'have been ruthlessly overthrown. One has been uprooted bodily; all the leaders and branches of the others have been wrenched from the main trunk; and the three still standing are bare poles and broken wreckage. Until one visits the spot one can have no conception of the wholesale destruction that the hurricane has wrought; until he looks on the huge rosy-hearted branches he cannot guess the tremendous force with which the tornado had fallen upon that "sable roof of boughs."

'For tornado or whirlwind it must needs have been. The Yews grew under the eastern flank of the hill called Base Brown. The gale raged from the westward. One could hardly believe it possible that the trees could have been touched by it; for the barrier hill on which they grew,—and under whose shelter they have seen centuries of storm,—goes straight upwards, betwixt them and the west. It was only realizable when, standing amid the wreckage, and looking across the valley, it was seen that a larch plantation had been entirely levelled, and evidently by a wind that was coming from the east, and directly toward the Yew-trees. On enquiring at Seathwaite Farm, one found that all the slates blown from the roof of that building on the west side, had been whirled up clean over the roof: and we can only surmise that the winds rushing from the west and north-west, and meeting the bastions of Glaramara and the Sty-head slopes, were whirled round in the 'cul-de-sac' of the valley, and moved with churning motion back from east to west over the Seathwaite Farm, and so in straight line across the beck, and up the slope to the Yew-tree cluster. With what a wrenching, and with what violence, these trees were in a moment shattered, only those can guess who now witness the ruins of the pillared shade, upon the "grassless floor of red-brown hue."'"

Ed.

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"Who fancied what a pretty sight"

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

In the edition of 1807 this poem was No. VIII. of the series entitled "Moods of my own Mind." It was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Fancy," and in a MS. copy it was named The Coronet of Snowdrops.—Ed.

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Who fancied what a pretty sight

This Rock would be if edged around

With living snow-drops? circlet bright!

How glorious to this orchard-ground!

Who loved the little Rock, and set

Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?

Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled

The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?

Of man mature, or matron sage?

Or old man toying with his age?

I asked—'twas whispered; The device

To each and all might well belong:

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.

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"It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I remember the instant my sister S. H., called me to the window of our Cottage, saying, "Look how beautiful is yon star! It has the sky all to itself." I composed the verses immediately.—I. F.]

This was No. XIII. of "Moods of my own Mind," in the edition of 1807. It was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

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It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,

And is descending on his embassy;

Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!

'Tis Hesperus—there he stands with glittering crown,

First admonition that the sun is down!

For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;

A few are near him still—and now the sky,

He hath it to himself—'tis all his own.

O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

Within me when I recognised thy light;

A moment I was startled at the sight:

And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

That I might step beyond my natural race

As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace

Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,

My Soul, an Apparition in the place,

Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove!

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O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

Within me when I recognised thy light;

A moment I was startled at the sight:

And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

That even I beyond my natural race

Might step as thou dost now: might one day trace

1815

O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought

A startling recollection to my mind

Of the distinguished few among mankind,

Who dare to step beyond their natural race,

As thou seem'st now to do:—nor was a thought

Denied—that even I might one day trace

1820

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1807.
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Footnote A:   Professor Dowden directs attention to the relation between these lines and the poem beginning "If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven."—Ed.
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Memorials of a Tour in Scotland

1803

These poems were first collected, under the above title, in the edition of 1827. In 1807, nine of them—viz. Rob Roy's Grave, The Solitary Reaper, Stepping Westward, Glen Almain, or, The Narrow Glen, The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband, To a Highland Girl, Sonnet, To the Sons of Burns after visiting the Grave of their Father, Yarrow Unvisited,—were printed under the title, "Poems written during a Tour in Scotland." This group begins the second volume of the edition of that year. But in 1815 and 1820—when Wordsworth began to arrange his poems in groups—they were distributed with the rest of the series in the several artificial sections. Although some were composed after the Tour was finished—and the order in which Wordsworth placed them is not the order of the Scotch Tour itself—it is advisable to keep to his own method of arrangement in dealing with this particular group, for the same reason that we retain it in such a series as the Duddon Sonnets.—Ed.

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Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)^A

Composed 1811.—Published 1827

The Poem

[Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started together from Town-end to make a tour in Scotland. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection; and he departed from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left Loch Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my Epistle to Sir George Beaumont.—I. F.]

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The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains

Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;

Even for the tenants of the zone that lies

Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,

Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap

At will the crystal battlements, and peep

Into some other region, though less fair,

To see how things are made and managed there.

Change for the worse might please, incursion bold

Into the tracts of darkness and of cold;

O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer,

And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.

Such animation often do I find,

Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind,

Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,

Perchance without one look behind me cast,

Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth

Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.

O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign

Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;

Not like an outcast with himself at strife;

The slave of business, time, or care for life,

But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,

Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;—

To cull contentment upon wildest shores,

And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;

With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,

And having rights in all that we behold.

—Then why these lingering steps?—A bright adieu,

For a brief absence, proves that love is true;

Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn

That winds into itself for sweet return.

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Footnote A:   This first poem referring to the Scottish Tour of 1803, was not actually written till 1811. It originally formed the opening paragraph of the 'Epistle to Sir George Beaumont'. Wordsworth himself dated it 1804. It is every way desirable that it should introduce the series of poems referring to the Tour of 1803.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland:

"William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th."

Ed.

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At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death

Composed 1803^A.—Published 1842

The Poem

[For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It may be proper to add that the second of these pieces, though felt at the time, was not composed till many years after.—I. F.]

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I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,

At thought of what I now behold:

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold

        Strike pleasure dead,

So sadness comes from out the mould

        Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,

And thou forbidden to appear?

As if it were thyself that's here

        I shrink with pain;

And both my wishes and my fear

        Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away

Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;

With chastened feelings would I pay

        The tribute due

To him, and aught that hides his clay

        From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth

He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,

Rose like a star that touching earth,

        For so it seems,

Doth glorify its humble birth

        With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,

The struggling heart, where be they now?—

Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,

        The prompt, the brave,

Slept, with the obscurest, in the low

        And silent grave.

I mourned with thousands, but as one

More deeply grieved, for He was gone

Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

        And showed my youth

How Verse may build a princely throne

        On humble truth.

Alas! where'er the current tends,

Regret pursues and with it blends,—

Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends

        By Skiddaw seen,—

Neighbours we were, and loving friends

        We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;

But heart with heart and mind with mind,

Where the main fibres are entwined,

        Through Nature's skill,

May even by contraries be joined

        More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;

Thou "poor Inhabitant below,"

At this dread moment—even so—

        Might we together

Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

        Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed

Within my reach; of knowledge graced

By fancy what a rich repast!

        But why go on?—

Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,

        His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,

(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)

Lies gathered to his Father's side,

        Soul-moving sight!

Yet one to which is not denied

        Some sad delight.

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he

is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,

Harboured where none can be misled,

        Wronged, or distrest;

And surely here it may be said

        That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace

Checked oft-times in a devious race,

May He who halloweth the place

        Where Man is laid

Receive thy Spirit in the embrace

        For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,

Music that sorrow comes not near,

        A ritual hymn,

Chanted in love that casts out fear

        By Seraphim.

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But wherefore tremble? 'tis no place

Of pain and sorrow, but of grace,

Of shelter, and of silent peace,

And "friendly aid";

Grasped is he now in that embrace

For which he prayed.^a

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Well might I mourn that He was gone

Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

When, breaking forth as nature's own,

It showed my youth

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Footnote A:   It is dated thus by Wordsworth himself on three occasions, and the year of its composition is also indicated in the title of the poem.—Ed.
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Footnote B:  Compare Burns's poem To a Mountain Daisy, l. 15.—Ed.
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Footnote C:   See Burns's A Bard's Epitaph, l. 19.—Ed.
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Footnote D:  Compare The Tomb of Burns, by William Watson, 1895.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   Criffel.—Ed.
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Footnote F:  Annandale.—Ed.
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Sub-Footnote a:   See in his poem the Ode to Ruin.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of the Tour in Scotland:

"Thursday, August 18th.— Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of Burns's house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed.... Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.

'There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, 'there lies Mr. Such-a-one. I have forgotten his name. A remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.'

We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses.

'Is there a man whose judgment clear,

Can others teach the way to steer,

Yet runs himself life's mad career,

        Wild as the wave?

Here let him pause, and through a tear

        Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

        And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low

        And stained his name.'

"I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains, within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last view we had of them. Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neighbourhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say:

'Seurfell^E from the sky,

That Anadale^F doth crown, with a most amorous eye,

Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,

Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threatening him!'

"These lines recurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, including ourselves in the fancy, that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes."

Ed.

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Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence

Composed 1803.^A—Published 1842

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Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow

Was wreathed—"The Vision" tells us how—

        With holly spray,

He faultered, drifted to and fro,

        And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng

Our minds when, lingering all too long,

Over the grave of Burns we hung

        In social grief—

Indulged as if it were a wrong

        To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

And prompt to welcome every gleam

        Of good and fair,

Let us beside this limpid Stream

        Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;

Think rather of those moments bright

When to the consciousness of right

        His course was true,

When Wisdom prospered in his sight

        And virtue grew.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,

Freely as in youth's season bland,

When side by side, his Book in hand,

        We wont to stray,

Our pleasure varying at command

        Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trod

These pathways, yon far-stretching road!

There lurks his home; in that Abode,

        With mirth elate,

Or in his nobly-pensive mood,

        The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes,

Before it humbly let us pause,

And ask of Nature, from what cause

        And by what rules

She trained her Burns to win applause

        That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen

Are felt the flashes of his pen;

He rules mid winter snows, and when

        Bees fill their hives;

Deep in the general heart of men

        His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime

Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,

And all that fetched the flowing rhyme

        From genuine springs,

Shall dwell together till old Time

        Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven

This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;

The rueful conflict, the heart riven

        With vain endeavour,

And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,

        Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,

When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear

On the frail heart the purest share

        With all that live?—

The best of what we do and are,

        Just God, forgive!

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Footnote A:  Though "suggested" on "the day following," these stanzas were not written then; but "many years after." They must, however, find a place in the "Memorials" of this 1803 Tour in Scotland.—Ed.
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Footnote B:   Burns's poem, thus named.—Ed.
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Note:   See the note to the previous poem. The line

'These pathways, yon far-stretching road!'

refers probably to the road to Brownhill, past Ellisland farmhouse where Burns lived. "The day following" would be Aug. 19th, 1803. The extract which follows from the Journal is a further illustration of the poem. August 8th.

"... Travelled through the vale of Nith, here little like a vale, it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on each side, in outline resembling the old-fashioned valances of a bed. There is a great deal of arable land; the corn ripe; trees here and there—plantations, clumps, coppices, a newness in everything. So much of the gorse and broom rooted out that you wonder why it is not all gone, and yet there seems to be almost as much gorse and broom as corn; and they grow one among another you know not how. Crossed the Nith; the vale becomes narrow, and very pleasant; cornfields, green hills, clay cottages; the river's bed rocky, with woody banks. Left the Nith about a mile and a half, and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn, where we slept. The view from the windows was pleasing, though some travellers might have been disposed to quarrel with it for its general nakedness; yet there was abundance of corn. It is an open country—open, yet all over hills. At a little distance were many cottages among trees, that looked very pretty. Brownhill is about seven or eight miles from Ellisland. I fancied to myself, while I was sitting in the parlour, that Burns might have caroused there, for most likely his rounds extended so far, and this thought gave a melancholy interest to the smoky walls...."

On Dec. 23, 1839, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry Reed, Philadelphia:

"The other day I chanced to be looking over a MS. poem belonging to the year 1803, though not actually composed till many years afterwards. It was suggested by visiting the neighbourhood of Dumfries, in which Burns had resided, and where he died: it concluded thus:

'Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven, etc.'

I instantly added, the other day,

'But why to Him confine the prayer, etc.'

The more I reflect upon this, the more I feel justified in attaching comparatively small importance to any literary monument that I may be enabled to leave behind. It is well however, I am convinced, that men think otherwise in the earlier part of their lives...."

It may be mentioned that in his note to the "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years," (1842), Wordsworth does not quote from the text of his sister's Journal,—which was first published in 1875,—but from some other copy of it.—Ed.

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To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father^A

Composed before 1807^B—Published 1807

The Poem

The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church-yard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses:

'Is there a man whose judgment clear, etc.'

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.—W. W. 1827.^C

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in the 1815 and 1820 editions.—Ed.

The Poem

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'Mid crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

        With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns

        Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill

Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill

        Must ye display;

If ye would give the better will

        Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if the Poet's wit ye share,

        Like him can speed

The social hour—of tenfold care

        There will be need;

For honest men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,—and fool and rake

        Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make

        A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,

And add your voices to the quire

That sanctify the cottage fire

        With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,

        His spirit greet;

Or where,'mid "lonely heights and hows,"

He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

Or wiped his honourable brows

        Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

        Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray

Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;

But ne'er to a seductive lay

        Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray,

        Is light from Heaven."

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

Be independent, generous, brave;

Your Father such example gave,

        And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

        And think, and fear!

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Strong bodied if ye be to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if your Father's wit ye share,

Then, then indeed,

Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care

1807

... for tenfold care

1827

The text of 1827 is otherwise identical with that of 1840.
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Variant 3:  

1840

For honest men delight will take

To shew you favor for his sake,

Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake

1807

For their beloved Poet's sake,

Even honest men delight will take

To flatter you; ...

1820

Even honest Men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,— ...

1827

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Footnote A:   In the edition of 1807, this poem has the title Address to the Sons of Burns after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803). Slight changes were made in the title afterwards.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Dorothy Wordsworth wrote, in her Recollections of this tour, under date August 18th, 1803,

"William wrote long afterwards the following Address to the sons of the ill-fated poet."

Ed.
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Footnote C:   This explanatory note appears in every edition of the Poems from 1827 to 1850. It is taken (but not literally) from the Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland as published in 1875.—Ed.
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Footnote D:  From Burns's Epistle to James Smith, l. 53.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   From Burns's poem, The Vision, Duan Second.—Ed.
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Footnote F:   In the edition of 1807, the poem began with what is now the second stanza, and consisted of four stanzas only, viz. Nos. ii., iii., iv., and viii. Stanzas i., v., vi., and vii. were added in 1827. Stanza iii. was omitted in 1820, but restored in 1827.—Ed.
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Note:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of this Tour we find, under date August 18, 1803:

"The grave of Burns's Son, which we had just seen by the side of his Father, and some stories heard at Dumfries respecting the dangers his surviving children were exposed to, filled us with melancholy concern, which had a kind of connection with ourselves."

"The body of Burns was not allowed to remain long in this place. To suit the plan of a rather showy mausoleum his remains were removed into a more commodious spot of the same kirkyard on the 5th July 1815."—(Allan Cunningham.)

Ellen Irwin; or, the Braes of Kirtle, comes next in this series of "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803." It has already been printed, however, (p. 124), in its proper chronological place, among the poems belonging to the year 1800. —Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

To a Highland Girl

(at Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond)

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

Classed in 1815 and 1820 as one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

[This delightful creature and her demeanour are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. The sort of prophecy with which the verses conclude has, through God's goodness, been realized; and now, approaching the close of my 73rd year, I have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful objects with which she was surrounded. She is alluded to in the poem of 'The Three Cottage Girls' among my Continental Memorials. In illustration of this class of poems I have scarcely anything to say beyond what is anticipated in my Sister's faithful and admirable Journal.—I. F.]

The Poem

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variant

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Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these grey rocks; that household lawn;

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;

This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake;

This little bay; a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy Abode—

In truth together do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream;

Such Forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep!

But, O fair Creature! in the light

Of common day, so heavenly bright,

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart;

God shield thee to thy latest years!

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;

And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray

For thee when I am far away:

For never saw I mien, or face,

In which more plainly I could trace

Benignity and home-bred sense

Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered, like a random seed,

Remote from men, Thou dost not need

The embarrassed look of shy distress,

And maidenly shamefacedness:

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear

The freedom of a Mountaineer:

A face with gladness overspread!

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!

And seemliness complete, that sways

Thy courtesies, about thee plays;

With no restraint, but such as springs

From quick and eager visitings

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach

Of thy few words of English speech:

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife

That gives thy gestures grace and life!

So have I, not unmoved in mind,

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—

Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull

For thee who art so beautiful?

O happy pleasure! here to dwell

Beside thee in some heathy dell;

Adopt your homely ways and dress,

A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!

But I could frame a wish for thee

More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea; and I would have

Some claim upon thee, if I could,

Though but of common neighbourhood.

What joy to hear thee, and to see!

Thy elder Brother I would be,

Thy Father—anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace

Hath led me to this lonely place.

Joy have I had; and going hence

I bear away my recompence.

In spots like these it is we prize

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:

Then, why should I be loth to stir?

I feel this place was made for her;

To give new pleasure like the past,

Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;

For I, methinks, till I grow old,

As fair before me shall behold,

As I do now, the cabin small,

The lake, the bay, the waterfall;

And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 A B

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1837

... this ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1827

In truth together ye do seem

1807

In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem

1837

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1827.
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Variant 3:   The two preceding lines were added in 1845.
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Variant 4:  

1845

Yet, dream and vision ...

1807

... or vision ...

1837

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Variant 5:  

1845

I neither know thee ...

1807

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Variant 6:  

1827

Sweet looks, ...

1807

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Footnote A:  

"The distribution of 'these,' 'that,' and 'those' in these two lines, was attained in 1845, after various changes. "

(Edward Dowden.)
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Virgil's Eclogues, x. 35:

'Atque utinam ex vobis unus, etc.'

Ed.
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Note:   In her Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:

"Sunday, August 28th.—... After long waiting, the girls, who had been on the look-out, informed us that the boat was coming. I went to the waterside, and saw a cluster of people on the opposite shore; but, being yet at a distance, they looked more like soldiers surrounding a carriage than a group of men and women; red and green were the distinguishable colours. We hastened to get ourselves ready as soon as we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than we expected, the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew near we could distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks, and green umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all in motion with small waves, while the swollen waterfall roared in our ears. The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's edge by the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one after another. It did not rain much, but the women held up their umbrellas; they were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and with their scarlet cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch bonnets, made a gay appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the boat, which even imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in its tumult, and the restless grey waves; the young men laughed and shouted, the lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to be in a bustle to be away. I remember well with what haste the mistress of the house where we were ran up to seek after her child, and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly she inquired how we had fared, if we had had a good fire, had been well waited upon, etc. All this in three minutes—for the boatman had another party to bring from the other side, and hurried us off.

"The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. Macfarlane's gave us very favourable impressions on this our first entrance into the Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with their kindness to us, and the beautiful face and figure of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me, a living image as it will be to my dying day. The following poem was written by William not long after our return from Scotland."

Compare the poem called The Three Cottage Girls, in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820," published in 1822.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen

Composed (possibly) in 1803.—Published 1807

Classed in 1815 and 1820 with the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

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In this still place, remote from men,

Sleeps Ossian, in the

Narrow Glen

;

In this still place, where murmurs on

But one meek streamlet, only one:

He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death;

And should, methinks, when all was past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And everything unreconciled;

In some complaining, dim retreat,

For fear and melancholy meet;

But this is calm; there cannot be

A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it?—I blame them not

Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

Was moved; and in such way expressed

Their notion of its perfect rest.

A convent, even a hermit's cell,

Would break the silence of this Dell:

It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:

The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere

Yet happy feelings of the dead:

And, therefore, was it rightly said

That Ossian, last of all his race!

Lies buried in this lonely place.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 A

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... in this ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1827

And ...

1807

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Footnote A:   Compare the poem To the Lady Fleming, stanza iii. ll. 28-9.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In the Statistical Account of Scotland, however—drawn up by the parish ministers of the county, and edited by Sir John Sinclair—both the river and the glen are spelt Almon, by the Rev. Mr. Erskine, who wrote the account of Monzie Parish in Perthshire. This was in 1795. A recent authority states:

"'Glenamon,' in Ayrshire, and 'Glenalmond,' in Perthshire, are both from the corrupted spelling of the word 'Avon,' which derives from its being very nearly the pronunciation of the Gaelic word for 'a river.' These names are from 'Gleann-abhuinn,' that is,'the valley of the river.'"

(See the Gaelic Topography of Scotland, by James A. Robertson, Edinburgh, 1859.)—Ed.
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Note:   The glen is Glenalmond, in Perthshire, between Crieff and Amulree, known locally as "the Sma' Glen." I am not aware that it was ever called "Glen Almain," till Wordsworth gave it that singularly un-Scottish name.^B It must have been a warm August day, after a tract of dry weather, when he went through it, or the Almond would scarcely have been called a "small streamlet." In many seasons of the year the distinctive features of the Glen would be more appropriately indicated by the words, which the poet uses by way of contrast with his own experience of it, viz. a place

'Where sights are rough, and sounds are wild,

And everything unreconciled.'

But his characterization of the place—a glen, the charm of which is little known—in the stillness of an autumn afternoon, is as true to nature as any of his interpretations of the spirit of the hills and vales of Westmoreland. As yet there is no farm-house, scarcely even a sheiling, to "break the silence of this Dell." The following is Dorothy Wordsworth's account of their walk through it on Friday, September 9th, 1803:

"Entered the glen at a small hamlet at some distance from the head, and, turning aside a few steps, ascended a hillock which commanded a view to the top of it—a very sweet scene, a green valley, not very narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, almost invisible in a misty green of afternoon light. At this hamlet we crossed a bridge, and the road led us down the glen, which had become exceedingly narrow, and so continued to the end: the hills on both sides heathy and rocky, very steep, but continuous; the rock not single or overhanging, not scooped into caverns, or sounding with torrents; there are no trees, no houses, no traces of cultivation, not one outstanding object. It is truly a solitude, the road even making it appear still more so; the bottom of the valley is mostly smooth and level, the brook not noisy: everything is simple and undisturbed, and while we passed through it the whole place was shady, cool, clear, and solemn. At the end of the long valley we ascended a hill to a great height, and reached the top, when the sun, on the point of setting, shed a soft yellow light upon every eminence. The prospect was very extensive; over hollows and plains, no towns, and few houses visible—a prospect, extensive as it was, in harmony with the secluded dell, and fixing its own peculiar character of removedness from the world, and the secure possession of the quiet of nature more deeply in our minds. The following poem was written by William on hearing of a tradition relating to it, which we did not know when we were there."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Stepping Westward

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward?"—W. W. 1807.

Classed in 1815 and 1820 among the "Poems of the Imagination." —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

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line number

"

What, you are stepping westward?

"—"

Yea.

"

'Twould be a

wildish

destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange Land, and far from home,

Were in this place the guests of Chance:

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

Though home or shelter he had none,

With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;

Behind, all gloomy to behold;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of

heavenly

destiny:

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound

Of something without place or bound;

And seemed to give me spiritual right

To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake

Was walking by her native lake:

The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy:

Its power was felt; and while my eye

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

The echo of the voice enwrought

A human sweetness with the thought

Of travelling through the world that lay

Before me in my endless way.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 A

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1807

... seemed to me

In MS. letter to Sir G. Beaumont. N. D.

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Footnote A:   Italics were first used in 1855.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is from the Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland:

"Sunday, Sept. 11th.—We have never had a more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond and the three pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond, which we had seen from the garrison, were very majestic under the clear sky, the lake perfectly calm, the air sweet and mild. I felt that it was much more interesting to visit a place where we have been before than it can possibly be the first time, except under peculiar circumstances. The sun had been set for some time, when, being within a quarter of a mile of the ferry man's hut, our path having led us close to the shore of the calm lake, we met two neatly-dressed women, without hats, who had probably been taking their Sunday evening's walk. One of them said to us in a friendly, soft tone of voice, 'What, you are stepping westward?' I cannot describe how affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the western sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun. William wrote the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings and mine."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Solitary Reaper

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820. —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 A

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1807

... singing ...

MS.

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Variant 2:  

1827

So sweetly to reposing bands

1807

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Variant 3:  

1837

No sweeter voice was ever heard

1807

... sound ...

MS.

Such thrilling voice was never heard

1827

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Variant 4:  

1815

... sung

1807

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Variant 5:  

1820

I listen'd till I had my fill:

1807

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Variant 6:  

1807

And when ...

1827

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.
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Footnote A:   Compare The Ancient Mariner(part ii. stanza 6):

'And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:   The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Tour: 13th Sept. 1803.

"As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way being pleasantly varied—through coppices or open fields, and passing farm-houses, though always with an intermixture of cultivated ground. It was harvest-time, and the fields were quietly—might I be allowed to say pensively?—enlivened by small companies of reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a single person so employed. The following poem was suggested to William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's Tour in Scotland."

In a note appended to the editions 1807 to 1820, Wordsworth wrote:

"This Poem was suggested by a beautiful sentence in a MS. 'Tour in Scotland,' written by a Friend, the last line being taken from it verbatim."

The first part of Wilkinson's Tours to the British Mountains, which was published in 1824, narrates his journey in Scotland (it took place in 1787); and the following sentence occurs in the record of his travels near Loch Lomond (p. 12),

"Passed a female who was reaping alone: she sung in Erse, as she bended over her sickle; the sweetest human voice I ever heard: her strains were tenderly melancholy, and felt delicious, long after they were heard no more."

There can be no doubt that this is the sentence referred to both by Dorothy and William Wordsworth. Thomas Wilkinson was the friend, in whose memory Wordsworth wrote the poem To the Spade of a Friend, composed while we were labouring together in his pleasure-ground. They were comparatively near neighbours, as Wilkinson lived near Yanwath on the Emont; and he had given his MS. to the Wordsworth family to read. I have received some additional information about this MS., and Wordsworth's knowledge of it, from Mr. Wilson Robinson, who writes,

"From all the evidence, I conclude that Wilkinson's 'Tour to the Highlands' was shown in manuscript to his friends soon after his return;—that he was not only willing to show it, but even to allow it to be copied, though reluctant to publish it;—that there was sufficient intimacy between him and the Wordsworths to account for his showing or lending the manuscript to them, especially as they had travelled over much of the same ground, and would therefore be more interested in it; and that in fact it was never published till 1824."

When Wordsworth was living at Coleorton during the late autumn of 1806 he wrote to Wilkinson:

"... What shall I say in apology for your Journal, which is now locked up with my manuscripts at Grasmere. As I could not go over to your part of the country myself, my intention was to have taken it with me to Kendal,... to be carefully transmitted to you; unluckily, most unluckily, in the hurry of departure, I forgot it, together with two of my own manuscripts which were along with it; and I am afraid you will be standing in great need of it.... If you do not want it, it is in a place where it can take no injury, and I may have the pleasure of delivering it to you myself in the spring...."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Address to Kilchurn Castle

Upon Loch Awe

Begun 1803.—Published 1827

The Poem

"From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view,—a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it)^A at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the Water,—mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low-grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately—not dismantled of Turrets—nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin."

Extract from the Journal of my Companion.—W. W. 1827.

[The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the Ruin, from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.—I. F.]

The Poem

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Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream

Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are

That touch each other to the quick in modes

Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care

Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire,

Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place

And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem

But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,

Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills

Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)

Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims

To reverence, suspends his own; submitting

All that the God of Nature hath conferred,

All that he holds in common with the stars,

To the memorial majesty of Time

Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!

Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light

Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,

Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule

Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite

To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,

In willing admiration and respect,

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called

Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,

Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

The chronicle were welcome that should call

Into the compass of distinct regard

The toils and struggles of thy infant years!

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;

Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,

Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,

To the perception of this Age, appear

Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued

And quieted in character—the strife,

The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!"

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 B

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... has ...

1827

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1845

... of thy infancy!

1827

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Footnote A:   The clause within brackets was added in 1837.—Ed.
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Footnote B:  The Tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.—W. W. 1827.
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Note:   From the following passage in Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of their Tour, it will be seen that the poet altered the text considerably in making his quotation in 1827: August 31, 1803.

"When we had ascended half-way up the hill, directed by the man, I took a nearer foot-path, and at the top came in view of a most impressive scene, a ruined castle on an island almost in the middle of the last compartment of the lake, backed by a mountain cove, down which came a roaring stream. The castle occupied every foot of the island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water; mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine between; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the castle was wild, yet stately, not dismantled of its turrets, nor the walls broken down, though completely in ruin. After having stood some minutes I joined William on the highroad, and both wishing to stay longer near this place, we requested the man to drive his little boy on to Dalmally, about two miles further, and leave the car at the inn. He told us the ruin was called Kilchurn Castle, that it belonged to Lord Breadalbane, and had been built by one of the ladies of that family for her defence, during her lord's absence at the Crusades; for which purpose she levied a tax of seven years' rent upon her tenants; he said that from that side of the lake it did not appear, in very dry weather, to stand upon an island, but that it was possible to go over to it without being wet-shod. We were very lucky in seeing it after a great flood; for its enchanting effect was chiefly owing to its situation in the lake, a decayed palace rising out of the plain of waters! I have called it a palace, for such feeling it gave me, though having been built as a place of defence, a castle or fortress. We turned again and reascended the hill, and sate a long time in the middle of it looking on the castle, and the huge mountain cove opposite, and William, addressing himself to the ruin, poured out these verses."

Compare Wordsworth's description of this ruin in his Guide through the District of the Lakes.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Rob Roy's Grave

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland. —W. W. 1807.

[I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good authority, namely, that of a well educated Lady who lived at the head of the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood.—I. F.]

In the copy of Rob Roy's Grave, transcribed in Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of the Tour in Scotland of 1803, there are several important variations of text, which occur in none of the printed editions of the poem. These are indicated (to distinguish them from other readings) by the initials D. W.—Ed. One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

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A famous man is Robin Hood,

The English ballad-singer's joy!

And Scotland has a thief as good,

An outlaw of as daring mood;

She has her brave

Rob Roy

!

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,

And let us chant a passing stave,

In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart

And wondrous length and strength of arm:

Nor craved he more to quell his foes,

Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as

wise

as brave;

Forgive me if the phrase be strong;—

A Poet worthy of Rob Roy

Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;

As wise in thought as bold in deed:

For in the principles of things

He

sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, "What need of books?

Burn all the statutes and their shelves:

They stir us up against our kind;

And worse, against ourselves.

"We have a passion—make a law,

Too false to guide us or control!

And for the law itself we fight

In bitterness of soul.

"And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose

Distinctions that are plain and few:

These find I graven on my heart:

That

tells me what to do.

"The creatures see of flood and field,

And those that travel on the wind!

With them no strife can last; they live

In peace, and peace of mind.

"For why?—because the good old rule

Sufficeth them, the simple plan,

That they should take, who have the power,

And they should keep who can.

"A lesson that is quickly learned,

A signal this which all can see!

Thus nothing here provokes the strong

To wanton cruelty.

"All freakishness of mind is checked;

He tamed, who foolishly aspires;

While to the measure of his might

Each fashions his desires.

"All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall

By strength of prowess or of wit:

'Tis God's appointment who must sway,

And who is to submit.

"Since, then, the rule of right is plain,

And longest life is but a day;

To have my ends, maintain my rights,

I'll take the shortest way."

And thus among these rocks he lived,

Through summer heat and winter snow:

The Eagle, he was lord above,

And Rob was lord below.

So was it—

would

, at least, have been

But through untowardness of fate;

For Polity was then too strong—

He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?

For, were the bold Man living

now

,

How might he flourish in his pride,

With buds on every bough!

Then rents and factors, rights of chase,

Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains,

Would all have seemed but paltry things,

Not worth a moment's pains.

Rob Roy had never lingered here,

To these few meagre Vales confined;

But thought how wide the world, the times

How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said,

"Do Thou my sovereign will enact

From land to land through half the earth!

Judge thou of law and fact!

"'Tis fit that we should do our part,

Becoming, that mankind should learn

That we are not to be surpassed

In fatherly concern.

"Of old things all are over old,

Of good things none are good enough:—

We'll show that we can help to frame

A world of other stuff.

"I, too, will have my kings that take

From me the sign of life and death:

Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,

Obedient to my breath."

And, if the word had been fulfilled,

As

might

have been, then, thought of joy!

France would have had her present Boast,

And we our own Rob Roy!

Oh! say not so; compare them not;

I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!

Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all

Here standing by thy grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts

Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!

Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love

The

liberty

of man.

And, had it been thy lot to live

With us who now behold the light,

Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself,

And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor man's stay,

The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;

And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,

Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh

Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays

Alone upon Loch Veol's heights,

And by Loch Lomond's braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,

Are faces that attest the same;

The proud heart flashing through the eyes,

At sound of

Rob Roy's

name.

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1807

And Scotland boasts of one as good,

She has her own Rob Roy.

1803. D.W.

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Variant 2:  

1807

... Outlaw ...

1803. D.W.

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Variant 3:  

1807

... daring ...

1803. D.W.

return


Variant 4:   Stanzas 3 and 4 are thus combined by D. W., and also in a printed (not published) version, given in a copy of the 1807 edition.

1807

Yet Robin was as wise as brave,

As wise in thought as bold in deed,

For in the principles of things

He sought his moral creed.

return

Variant 5:  

1827

... which ...

1807

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Variant 6:  

1807

... tyrannous ...

1803. D. W.

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Variant 7:  

1807

And freakishness ...

1803. D. W.

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Variant 8:  

1807

... their ...

MS.

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Variant 9:  

1807

All fashion their desires.

1803. D. W.

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Variant 10:  

1815

"Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,

1807

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Variant 11:  

1827

Through summer's heat and winter's snow:

1807

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Variant 12:  

1807

The Rents and Land-marks, Rights of Chase,

Sheriffs and Factors, Lairds and Thanes,

1803. D. W.

Sheriffs and Factors, rights of chase,

Their Lairds, and their domains,

MS.

return


Variant 13:  

1827

... our brave ...

1807

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Variant 14:  

1815

For Robin was ...

1807

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Variant 15:  

1815

Had Robin's to command.

1807

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Variant 16:  

1827

Kindling with instantaneous joy

1803. D.W.

And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,

1807

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Footnote A:   The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that "he could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright." According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman; after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was never conquered but once, and this not till he was an Old Man.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark

Note:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Scotch Tour the following occurs:

"August 27, 1803.—We mentioned Rob Roy, and the eyes of all glistened; even the lady of the house, who was very diffident, and no great talker, exclaimed, 'He was a good man, Rob Roy! he had been dead only about eighty years, had lived in the next farm, which belonged to him, and there his bones were laid.' He was a famous swordsman. Having an arm much longer than other men, he had a greater command with his sword. As a proof of the length of his arm, they told us that he could garter his tartan stockings below the knee without stooping, and added a dozen different stories of single combats, which he had fought, all in perfect good humour, merely to prove his prowess. I daresay they had stories of this kind which would hardly have been exhausted in the long evenings of a whole December week, Rob Roy being as famous here as even Robin Hood was in the forest of Sherwood; he also robbed from the rich, giving to the poor, and defending them from oppression. They tell of his confining the factor of the Duke of Montrose in one of the islands of Loch Ketterine, after having taken his money from him—the Duke's rents—in open day, while they were sitting at table. He was a formidable enemy of the Duke, but being a small laird against a greater, was overcome at last, and forced to resign all his lands on the Braes of Loch Lomond, including the caves which we visited, on account of the money he had taken from the Duke and could not repay."

September 12:

"Descended into Glengyle, above Loch Ketterine, and passed through Mr. Macfarlane's grounds, that is, through the whole of the glen, where there was now no house left but his. We stopped at his door to inquire after the family, though with little hope of finding them at home, having seen a large company at work in a hay-field, whom we conjectured to be his whole household, as it proved, except a servant-maid who answered our enquiries. We had sent the ferryman forward from the head of the glen to bring the boat round from the place where he left it to the other side of the lake. Passed the same farm-house we had such good reason to remember, and went up to the burying-ground that stood so sweetly near the water-side. The ferryman had told us that Rob Roy's grave was there, so we could not pass on without going up to the spot. There were several tombstones, but the inscriptions were either worn-out or unintelligible to us, and the place choked up with nettles and brambles. You will remember the description I have given of the spot. I have nothing here to add, except the following poem which it suggested to William."

Rob Roy was buried at the Kirkton of Balquhidder, near the outlet of Loch Voil in Perthshire. There are three sculptured stones in the rude burial-place of the Macgregors, at the eastern end of the old church. The one with the long claymore marks the resting-place of Rob Roy's wife; the one opposite on the other side is the tomb of his eldest son; and the central stone, more elaborately carved, marks the grave of the hero himself.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Sonnet composed at —— Castle

Composed September 18, 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[The castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told to me by Walter Scott.—I. F.]

In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!

Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,

And love of havoc, (for with such disease

Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word

To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable Trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,

Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored

The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain

The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze

On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,

And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,

And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

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1807

Now as I live, I pity that great Lord,

Whom pure despite ...

MS. letter to Sir Walter Scott. Oct. 1803.

Ill wishes shall attend the unworthy Lord

MS.

return

Note:  

"Sunday, September 18th.—After breakfast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill, over-looking the Tweed, a strong square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate, though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the high walls that fenced it broken down. The Tweed winds between green steeps, upon which, and close to the river side, large flocks of sheep pasturing; higher still are the grey mountains; but I need not describe the scene, for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he wrote the same day; the five last lines, at least, of his poem will impart to you more of the feeling of the place than it would be possible for me to do."

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland.) Writing to Sir Walter Scott (October 16, 1803), Wordsworth enclosed a copy of this sonnet, with the variation of text which has been quoted. Lockhart tells us

"in that original shape Scott always recited it, and few lines in the language were more frequently in his mouth."

Compare Burns' Verses on the destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig, which refer to the same subject.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Yarrow Unvisited

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"

W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

From Stirling castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled;

And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my "

winsome Marrow

,"

"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,

And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk,

frae

Selkirk town,

Who have been buying, selling,

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;

Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

But we will downward with the Tweed,

Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:

Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow?

"What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;

My True-love sighed for sorrow;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;

The swan on still St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swan and shadow!

We will not see them; will not go,

To-day, nor yet to-morrow;

Enough if in our hearts we know

There's such a place as Yarrow.

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!

It must, or we shall rue it:

We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!

For when we're there, although 'tis fair,

'Twill be another Yarrow.

"If Care with freezing years should come,

And wandering seem but folly,—

Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny holms of Yarrow!"

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 A B

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... downwards ...

1807

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Footnote A:   See Hamilton's Ballad as above.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In his Recollections of Wordsworth, Aubrey de Vere reports a conversation, in which the poet said to him,

"Scott misquoted in one of his novels my lines on Yarrow, He makes me write,

'The swans on sweet St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swans and shadow;'

but I wrote,

'The swan on still St. Mary's Lake.'

Never could I have written 'swans' in the plural. The scene when I saw it, with its still and dim lake, under the dusky hills, was one of utter loneliness: there was one swan, and one only, stemming the water, and the pathetic loneliness of the region gave importance to the one companion of that swan, its own white image in the water. It was for that reason that I recorded the Swan and the Shadow. Had there been many swans and many shadows, they would have implied nothing as regards the character of the place; and I should have said nothing about them."

See his Essays, chiefly on Poetry, vol. ii. p. 277. Wordsworth wrote to his friend, Walter Scott, to thank him for a copy of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, and in return sent a copy of these stanzas, Yarrow Unvisited. Scott replied gratefully on the 16th March 1805, and said,

"... I by no means admit your apology, however ingeniously and artfully stated, for not visiting the bonny holms of Yarrow, and certainly will not rest till I have prevailed upon you to compare the ideal with the real stream."

Wordsworth had asked him if he could suggest any name more true to the place than Burnmill, in the line, "The sweets of Burn-mill meadow." Scott replied:

"We have Broad-meadow upon Yarrow, which with the addition of green or fair or any other epithet of one syllable, will give truth to the locality, and supply the place of Burnmill meadow, which we have not. ... I like your swan upon St. Mary's Lake. How came you to know that it is actually frequented by that superb bird?"

(See Familiar Letters of Sir Walter Scott, vol. i. pp. 28, 29.)—Ed.
return


Note:  

"September 18, 1803.—We left the Tweed when we were within about a mile and a half or two miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we reached the spot—a single stone house, without a tree near it or to be seen from it. On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name, the woman of the house showed us all possible civility, but her slowness was really amusing. I should suppose it a house little frequented, for there is no appearance of an inn. Mr. Scott, who she told me was a very clever gentleman, 'goes there in the fishing season;' but indeed Mr. Scott is respected everywhere; I believe that by favour of his name one might be hospitably entertained throughout all the borders of Scotland. We dined and drank tea—did not walk out, for there was no temptation; a confined barren prospect from the window.

"At Clovenford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could not but think of the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of reserving the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which, after our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here transcribe."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.—W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,

And call a train of laughing Hours;

And bid them dance, and bid them sing;

And thou, too, mingle in the ring!

Take to thy heart a new delight;

If not, make merry in despite

That there is One who scorns thy power:—

But dance! for under Jedborough Tower,

A Matron dwells who, though she bears

The weight of more than seventy years,

Lives in the light of youthful glee,

And she will dance and sing with thee.

Nay! start not at that Figure—there!

Him who is rooted to his chair!

Look at him—look again! for he

Hath long been of thy family.

With legs that move not, if they can,

And useless arms, a trunk of man,

He sits, and with a vacant eye;

A sight to make a stranger sigh!

Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:

His world is in this single room:

Is this a place for mirthful cheer?

Can merry-making enter here?

The joyous Woman is the Mate

Of him in that forlorn estate!

He breathes a subterraneous damp;

But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:

He is as mute as Jedborough Tower:

She jocund as it was of yore,

With all its bravery on; in times

When all alive with merry chimes,

Upon a sun-bright morn of May,

It roused the Vale to holiday.

I praise thee, Matron! and thy due

Is praise, heroic praise, and true!

With admiration I behold

Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:

Thy looks, thy gestures, all present

The picture of a life well spent:

This do I see; and something more;

A strength unthought of heretofore!

Delighted am I for thy sake;

And yet a higher joy partake:

Our Human-nature throws away

Its second twilight, and looks gay;

A land of promise and of pride

Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed

Within himself as seems, composed;

To fear of loss, and hope of gain,

The strife of happiness and pain,

Utterly dead! yet in the guise

Of little infants, when their eyes

Begin to follow to and fro

The persons that before them go,

He tracks her motions, quick or slow.

Her buoyant spirit can prevail

Where common cheerfulness would fail;

She strikes upon him with the heat

Of July suns; he feels it sweet;

An animal delight though dim!

'Tis all that now remains for him!

The more I looked, I wondered more—

And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er,

Some inward trouble suddenly

Broke from the Matron's strong black eye—

A remnant of uneasy light,

A flash of something over-bright!

Nor long this mystery did detain

My thoughts;—she told in pensive strain

That she had borne a heavy yoke,

Been stricken by a twofold stroke;

Ill health of body; and had pined

Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

So be it!—but let praise ascend

To Him who is our lord and friend!

Who from disease and suffering

Hath called for thee a second spring;

Repaid thee for that sore distress

By no untimely joyousness;

Which makes of thine a blissful state;

And cheers thy melancholy Mate!

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 A B

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1827

For ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1837

... under Jedborough Tower

There liveth in the prime of glee,

A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,

And She ...

1807

There lives a woman of seventy-three,

And she will dance and sing with thee,

MS.

A Matron dwells, who though she bears

Our mortal complement of years,

Lives in the light of youthful glee,

1827

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Variant 3:  

1827

... for mirth and cheer?

1807

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Variant 4:  

1827

I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;

The more I look'd I wonder'd more:

1807

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Variant 5:  

1837

When suddenly I seem'd to espy

A trouble in her strong black eye;

1807

A moment gave me to espy

A trouble ...

1827

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Variant 6:  

1827

And soon she made this matter plain;

And told me, in a thoughtful strain,

1807

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Variant 7:  

As bad almost as Life can bring,

Added in MS.

return

Footnote A:   Compare Tennyson's Deserted House, stanza iv.:

'Come away: no more of mirth

Is here, or merry-making sound.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare stanza xiii. of Resolution and Independence, p. 318.—Ed.
return

Note:   Sept. 20, 1803.

"We were received with hearty welcome by a good woman, who, though above seventy years old, moved about as briskly as if she was only seventeen. Those parts of the house which we were to occupy were neat and clean; she showed me every corner, and, before I had been ten minutes in the house, opened her very drawers that I might see what a stock of linen she had; then asked how long we should stay, and said she wished we were come for three months. She was a most remarkable person; the alacrity with which she ran up-stairs when we rung the bell, and guessed at, and strove to prevent, our wants was surprising; she had a quick eye, and keen strong features, and a joyousness in her motions, like what used to be in old Molly when she was particularly elated. I found afterwards that she had been subject to fits of dejection and ill-health: we then conjectured that her overflowing gaiety and strength might in part be attributed to the same cause as her former dejection. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sate in a chair with scarcely the power to move a limb—an affecting contrast! The old woman said they had been a very hard-working pair; they had wrought like slaves at their trade—her husband had been a currier; and she told me how they had portioned off their daughters with money, and each a feather bed, and that in their old age they had laid out the little they could spare in building and furnishing that house, and she added with pride that she had lived in her youth in the family of Lady Egerton, who was no high lady, and now was in the habit of coming to her house whenever she was at Jedburgh, and a hundred other things; for when she once began with Lady Egerton, she did not know how to stop, nor did I wish it, for she was very entertaining. Mr. Scott sat with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone our hostess came to see if we wanted anything, and to wish us good-night. On all occasions her manners were governed by the same spirit: there was no withdrawing one's attention from her. We were so much interested that William, long afterwards, thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations which she had excited, and which then remained as vividly in his mind as at the moment when we lost sight of Jedburgh."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

"Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"^A

Composed September 25, 1803.—Published 1815

The Poem

[This was actually composed the last day of our tour between Dalston and Grasmere.—I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" in 1815 and 1820. —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!

Say that we come, and come by this day's light;

Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,

But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;

There let a mystery of joy prevail,

The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,

And Rover whine, as at a second sight

Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:

And from that Infant's face let joy appear;

Yea, let our Mary's one companion child—

That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled

With intimations manifold and dear,

While we have wandered over wood and wild—

Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3

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Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!

1815

... dale,

1827

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Variant 2:  

1837

Glad tidings!—spread them over field and height;

1815

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Variant 3:  

1837

The Kitten frolic with unruly might,

1815

The happy Kitten bound with frolic might,

1827

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Footnote A:   In the editions of 1815 and 1820, this poem bore the title, On approaching Home, after a Tour in Scotland, 1803,—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:  

"Sunday, September 25, 1803.—A beautiful autumnal day. Breakfasted at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Blind Highland Boy

A Tale Told by the Fire-side, after Returning to the Vale of Grasmere^A

Date of composition uncertain.—Published 1807

The Poem

[The story was told me by George Mackereth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shores of the Loch.—I.F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,

Have romped enough, my little Boy!

Jane hangs her head upon my breast,

And you shall bring your stool and rest;

This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see

That you can listen quietly:

And, as I promised, I will tell

That strange adventure which befel

A poor blind Highland Boy.

A

Highland

Boy!—why call him so?

Because, my Darlings, ye must know

That, under hills which rise like towers,

Far higher hills than these of ours!

He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight

The sun, the day; the stars, the night;

Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,

Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,

Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,

Nor had a melancholy mind;

For God took pity on the Boy,

And was his friend; and gave him joy

Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above

Her other children him did love:

For, was she here, or was she there,

She thought of him with constant care,

And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad

In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,

And bonnet with a feather gay,

To Kirk he on the sabbath day

Went hand in hand with her.

A dog too, had he; not for need,

But one to play with and to feed;

Which would have led him, if bereft

Of company or friends, and left

Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow—

And thus from house to house would go;

And all were pleased to hear and see,

For none made sweeter melody

Than did the poor blind Boy.

Yet he had many a restless dream;

Both when he heard the eagles scream,

And when he heard the torrents roar,

And heard the water beat the shore

Near which their cottage stood.

Beside a lake their cottage stood,

Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;

But one of mighty size, and strange;

That, rough or smooth, is full of change,

And stirring in its bed.

For to this lake, by night and day,

The great Sea-water finds its way

Through long, long windings of the hills

And drinks up all the pretty rills

And rivers large and strong:

Then hurries back the road it came—

Returns, on errand still the same;

This did it when the earth was new;

And this for evermore will do,

As long as earth shall last.

And, with the coming of the tide,

Come boats and ships that safely ride

Between the woods and lofty rocks;

And to the shepherds with their flocks

Bring tales of distant lands.

And of those tales, whate'er they were,

The blind Boy always had his share;

Whether of mighty towns, or vales

With warmer suns and softer gales,

Or wonders of the Deep.

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,

When from the water-side he heard

The shouting, and the jolly cheers;

The bustle of the mariners

In stillness or in storm.

But what do his desires avail?

For He must never handle sail;

Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float

In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat,

Upon the rocking waves.

His Mother often thought, and said,

What sin would be upon her head

If she should suffer this: "My Son,

Whate'er you do, leave this undone;

The danger is so great."

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side

Still sounding with the sounding tide,

And heard the billows leap and dance,

Without a shadow of mischance,

Till he was ten years old.

When one day (and now mark me well,

Ye soon shall know how this befell)

He in a vessel of his own,

On the swift flood is hurrying down,

Down to the mighty Sea.

In such a vessel never more

May human creature leave the Shore!

If this or that way he should stir,

Woe to the poor blind Mariner!

For death will be his doom.

But say what bears him?—Ye have seen

The Indian's bow, his arrows keen,

Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;

Gifts which, for wonder or delight,

Are brought in ships from far.

Such gifts had those seafaring men

Spread round that haven in the glen;

Each hut, perchance, might have its own;

And to the Boy they all were known—

He knew and prized them all.

The rarest was a Turtle-shell

Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

A shell of ample size, and light

As the pearly car of Amphitrite,

That sportive dolphins drew.

And, as a Coracle that braves

On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,

This shell upon the deep would swim,

And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing surge.

And this the little blind Boy knew:

And he a story strange yet true

Had heard, how in a shell like this

An English Boy, O thought of bliss!

Had stoutly launched from shore;

Launched from the margin of a bay

Among the Indian isles, where lay

His father's ship, and had sailed far—

To join that gallant ship of war,

In his delightful shell.

Our Highland Boy oft visited

'The house that held this prize; and, led

By choice or chance, did thither come

One day when no one was at home,

And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate, alone and blind,

That story flashed upon his mind;—

A bold thought roused him, and he took

The shell from out its secret nook,

And bore it on his head.

He launched his vessel,—and in pride

Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side,

Stepped into it—his thoughts all free

As the light breezes that with glee

Sang through the adventurer's hair.

A while he stood upon his feet;

He felt the motion—took his seat;

Still better pleased as more and more

The tide retreated from the shore,

And sucked, and sucked him in.

And there he is in face of Heaven.

How rapidly the Child is driven!

The fourth part of a mile, I ween,

He thus had gone, ere he was seen

By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me

What shrieking and what misery!

For many saw; among the rest

His Mother, she who loved him best,

She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the child, the sightless Boy,

It is the triumph of his joy!

The bravest traveller in balloon,

Mounting as if to reach the moon,

Was never half so blessed.

And let him, let him go his way,

Alone, and innocent, and gay!

For, if good Angels love to wait

On the forlorn unfortunate,

This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,

Which from the crowd on shore was sent,

The cries which broke from old and young

In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

Are stifled—all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew

A boat is ready to pursue;

And from the shore their course they take,

And swiftly down the running lake

They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace;

So have ye seen the fowler chase

On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast

A youngling of the wild-duck's nest

With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept

To seize (while on the Deep it slept)

The hapless creature which did dwell

Erewhile within the dancing shell,

They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made,

They follow, more and more afraid,

More cautious as they draw more near;

But in his darkness he can hear,

And guesses their intent.

"

Lei-gha—Lei-gha

"—he then cried out,

"

Lei-gha—Lei-gha

"—with eager shout;

Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,

And what he meant was, "Keep away,

And leave me to myself!"

Alas! and when he felt their hands—

You've often heard of magic wands,

That with a motion overthrow

A palace of the proudest show,

Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams—that inward light

With which his soul had shone so bright—

All vanished;—'twas a heartfelt cross

To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice,

With which the very hills rejoice:

'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly

Have watched the event, and now can see

That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,

Full sure they were a happy band,

Which, gathering round, did on the banks

Of that great Water give God thanks,

And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart

The blind Boy's little dog took part;

He leapt about, and oft did kiss

His master's hands in sign of bliss,

With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,

She who had fainted with her fear,

Rejoiced when waking she espies

The Child; when she can trust her eyes,

And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,

When he was in the house again:

Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;

She kissed him—how could she chastise?

She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved

The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;

And, though his fancies had been wild,

Yet he was pleased and reconciled

To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell

Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;

And long the story will repeat

Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,

And how he was preserved.

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Variant 1:  

1827

We've ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1807

How ...

MS.

return


Variant 3:  

1807

Aye, willingly, and what is more

One which you never heard before,

True story this which I shall tell

MS.

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Variant 4:  

1837

In land where many a mountain towers,

1807

return


Variant 5:  

1807

... could ...

MS.

return


Variant 6:  

1827

... sweetly ...

1807

return


Variant 7:  

1815

You ...

1807

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Variant 8:  

1837

He's in a vessel of his own,

On the swift water hurrying down

Towards the mighty Sea.

1807

He in a vessel of his own,

On the swift flood is hurrying down

1827

Towards the great, great Sea.

MS.

return


Variant 9:  

1815

... ne'er before

Did human Creature ...

1807

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Variant 10:  

The following stanza was only in the edition of 1807:

Strong is the current; but be mild,

Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!

If ye in anger fret or chafe,

A Bee-hive would be ship as safe

As that in which he sails.

return


Variant 11:  

1815

But say, what was it? Thought of fear!

Well may ye tremble when ye hear!

—A Household Tub, like one of those,

Which women use to wash their clothes,

This carried the blind Boy.

1807

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Variant 12:  

1820

And one, the rarest, was a Shell

Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

The Shell of a green Turtle, thin

And hollow;—you might sit therein.

It was so wide and deep.

1815

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Variant 13:  

1820

'Twas even the largest of its kind,

Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind;

So light a Shell that it would swim,

And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing waves.

1815

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Variant 14:  

1837

... which ...

1815

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Variant 15:  

1827

... in his arms.

1815

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Variant 16:  

1827

Close to the water he had found

This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,

Went into it; and, without dread,

Following the fancies in his head,

He paddled up and down.

1807

And with the happy burthen hied,

And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,—

Stepped into it; and, without dread,

1815

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Variant 17:  

1827

And dallied thus, till from the shore

The tide retreating more and more

Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.

1807

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Variant 18:   The two previous stanzas were added in the edition of 1815.
return


Variant 19:  

1837

... then did he cry

... most eagerly;

1807

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Variant 20:  

1807

... read ...

MS.

return


Variant 21:  

1837

Had ...

1807

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Variant 22:  

1832

She could not blame him, or chastise;

1807

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Variant 23:   This stanza was added in the edition of 1815.
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Footnote A:   The title in the editions of 1807 to 1820 was The Blind Highland Boy. (A Tale told by the Fireside.)

This poem gave its title to a separate division in the second volume of the edition of 1807, viz. "The Blind Highland Boy; with other Poems."—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  This reading occurs in all the editions. But Wordsworth, whose MS. was not specially clear, may have written, or meant to write "petty," (a much better word), and not perceived the mistake when revising the sheets. If he really wrote "petty," he may have meant either small rills (rillets), or used the word as Shakespeare used it, for "pelting" rills.—Ed.
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Footnote C:   Compare Tennyson's In Memoriam, stanza xix.:

'There twice a day the Severn fills;

The salt sea-water passes by,

And hushes half the babbling Wye,

And makes a silence in the hills, etc.'

Ed.
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Footnote D:   This and the following six stanzas were added in 1815.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   Writing to Walter Scott, from Coleorton, on Jan. 20, 1807, Wordsworth sent him this stanza of the poem, and asked

"Could you furnish me, by application to any of your Gaelic friends, a phrase in that language which could take its place in the following verse of eight syllables, and have the following meaning."

He adds,

"The above is part of a little poem which I have written on a Highland story told me by an eye-witness ..."

This is the nearest clue we have to the date of the composition of the poem.—Ed.
return

Note:   It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of a Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell and floated in it from the shore to his Father's Ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. Upon the suggestion of a Friend, I have substituted such a Shell for that less elegant vessel in which my blind voyager did actually intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Levin, as was related to me by an Eye-witness.—W. W. 1815.

This note varies slightly in later editions. The Loch Leven referred to is a sea-loch in Argyllshire, into which the tidal water flows with some force from Loch Linnhe at Ballachulish.

'By night and day

The great Sea-water finds its way

Through long, long windings of the hills.'

The friend referred to in the note of 1815, who urged Wordsworth to give his blind voyager a Shell, instead of a washing-tub to sail in, was Coleridge. The original tale of the tub was not more unfortunate than the lines in praise of Wilkinson's spade, and several of Wordsworth's friends, notably Charles Lamb and Barren Field, objected to the change. Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815,

"I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast" [i. e. the reviewer!] "or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could fairly be said against it. You say you made the alteration for the 'friendly reader,' but the 'malicious' will take it to himself."

(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 283.) Wordsworth could not be induced to "undo his work," and go back to his own original; although he evidently agreed with what Lamb had said (as is seen in a letter to Barren Field, Oct. 24, 1828).—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1803

Edited by William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

• 1803
• • The Green Linnet
  • Yew-Trees
  • "Who fancied what a pretty sight"
  • "It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"
  • Memorials of a Tour in Scotland
  • • Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)
    • At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death
    • Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence
    • To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father
    • To a Highland Girl
    • Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen
    • Stepping Westward
    • The Solitary Reaper
    • Address to Kilchurn Castle
    • Rob Roy's Grave
    • Sonnet composed at —— Castle
    • Yarrow Unvisited
    • The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband
    • "Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"
    • The Blind Highland Boy
  • October, 1803
  • "There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear"
  • October, 1803 (2)
  • "England! the time is come when thou should'st wean"
  • October, 1803 (3)
  • To the Men of Kent. October, 1803
  • In the Pass of Killicranky
  • Anticipation. October, 1803
  • Lines on the Expected Invasion, 1803

1803

The poems associated with the year 1803 consist mainly of the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland," which Wordsworth and his sister took—along with Coleridge—in the autumn of that year, although many of these were not written till some time after the Tour was finished. The Green Linnet and Yew-trees were written in 1803, and some sonnets were composed in the month of October; but, on the whole, 1803 was not a fruitful year in Wordsworth's life, as regards his lyrics and smaller poems. Doubtless both The Prelude and The Excursion were revised in 1803.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Green Linnet

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where the bird was often seen as here described.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow white blossoms on my head,

With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet

To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,

Make all one band of paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment:

A Life, a Presence like the Air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,

Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings

Upon his back and body flings

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A Brother of the dancing leaves;

Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.

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1827

The May is come again:—how sweet

To sit upon my Orchard-seat!

And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,

My last year's Friends together:

My thoughts they all by turns employ;

A whispering Leaf is now my joy,

And then a Bird will be the toy

That doth my fancy tether.

1807

And Flowers and Birds once more to greet,

1815

The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1827.
return


Variant 2:  

1845

Upon ...

1807

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Variant 3:  

1845

While thus before my eyes he gleams,

A Brother of the Leaves he seems;

When in a moment forth he teems

His little song in gushes:

1807

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,

A Bird so like the dancing Leaves;

Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

1827

My dazzled sight the Bird deceives,

A Brother of the dancing Leaves;

1832

The Bird my dazzled sight deceives,

1840

The Bird my dazzling sight deceives

C.

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Variant 4:  

1827

As if it pleas'd him to disdain

And mock the Form which he did feign,

While he was dancing with the train

Of Leaves among the bushes.

1807

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

1820

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Note:   Of all Wordsworth's poems this is the one most distinctively associated with the Orchard, at Town-end, Grasmere. Dorothy Wordsworth writes in her Journal under date May 28th, 1802:

"We sat in the orchard. The young bull-finches in their pretty coloured raiment, bustle about among the blossoms, and poise themselves like wire-dancers or tumblers, shaking the twigs and dashing off the blossoms."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Yew-Trees

Composed 1803.—Published 1815

The Poem

[Written at Grasmere. These Yew-trees are still standing, but the spread of that at Lorton is much diminished by mutilation. I will here mention that a little way up the hill, on the road leading from Rosthwaite to Stonethwaite (in Borrowdale) lay the trunk of a Yew-tree, which appeared as you approached, so vast was its diameter, like the entrance of a cave, and not a small one. Calculating upon what I have observed of the slow growth of this tree in rocky situations, and of its durability, I have often thought that the one I am describing must have been as old as the Christian era. The Tree lay in the line of a fence. Great masses of its ruins were strewn about, and some had been rolled down the hillside and lay near the road at the bottom. As you approached the tree, you were struck with the number of shrubs and young plants, ashes, etc., which had found a bed upon the decayed trunk and grew to no inconsiderable height, forming, as it were, a part of the hedgerow. In no part of England, or of Europe, have I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude, as it must have stood. By the bye, Hutton, the old guide, of Keswick, had been so impressed with the remains of this tree, that he used gravely to tell strangers that there could be no doubt of its having been in existence before the flood.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

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There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary Tree! a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane;—a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

Perennially—beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries—ghostly Shapes

May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton

And Time the Shadow;—there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents

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Note:   The text of this poem was never altered. The Lorton Yew-tree—which, in 1803, was "of vast circumference," the "pride of Lorton Vale," and described as:

'a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed—'

does not now verify its poet's prediction of the future. Mr. Wilson Robinson of Whinfell Hall, Cockermouth, wrote to me of it in May 1880:

"The tree in outline expanded towards the root considerably: then, at about two feet from the ground, the trunk began to separate into huge limbs, spreading in all directions. I once measured this trunk at its least circumference, and found it 23 feet 10 inches. For the last 50 or 60 years the branches have been gradually dying on the S. E. side, and about 25 years ago a strong S. E. gale, coming with accumulated force down Hope Gill, and—owing to the tree being so open on that side—taking it laterally at a disadvantage, wrenched off one of the great side branches down to the ground, carrying away nearly a third of the tree. This event led to farther peril; for, the second portion having been sold to a cabinetmaker at Whitehaven for #15, this gave the impression that the wood was very valuable (owing to the celebrity of the tree); and a local woodmonger bought the remainder. Two men worked half a day to grub it up; but a Cockermouth medical gentleman, hearing what was going on, made representations to the owner, and it ended in the woodmen sparing the remainder of the tree, which was not much the worse for what had been done. Many large dead branches have also been cut off, and now we have to regret that the 'pride of Lorton Vale,' shorn of its ancient dignity, is but a ruin, much more venerable than picturesque."

The "fraternal Four of Borrowdale" are certainly "worthier still of note." The "trunk" described in the Fenwick note, as on the road between Rosthwaite and Stonethwaite, has disappeared long ago; but the "solemn and capacious grove" existed till 1883 in its integrity. The description in the poem is realistic throughout, while the visible scene suggests

"an ideal grove, in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which they dimly listen."

(Stopford A. Brooke, in Theology in the English Poets, p. 259.) With the first part of the poem Wordsworth's Sonnet composed at —— Castle during the Scotch Tour of 1803 may be compared (p. 410). For a critical estimate of the poem see Modern Painters, part III. sec. II, chap. iv. Ruskin alludes to "the real and high action of the imagination in Wordsworth's Yew-trees (perhaps the most vigorous and solemn bit of forest landscape ever painted). It is too long to quote, but the reader should refer to it: let him note especially, if painter, that pure touch of colour, 'by sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged.'" See also Coleridge's criticism in Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. p. I77, edition 1847, and his daughter Sara's comment on her father's note. There can be little doubt that, as Professor Dowden has suggested, the lines 23 to 28 were suggested to Wordsworth by Virgil's lines in the Sixth Book of the Æneid, 273-284:

'Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci

Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curæ;

Pallentesque habitant Morbi, tristisque Senectus,

Et Metus, et malesuada Fames, ac turpis Egestas,

Terribiles visu formæ, Letumque, Labosque;

Tum consanguineus Leti Sopor, et mala mentis

Gaudia, mortiferumque adverso in limine Bellum,

Ferreique Eumenidum thalami, et Discordia demens,

Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis.

In medio ramos annosaque bracchia pandit

Ulmus opaca, ingens, quam sedem Somnia volgo

Vana tenere ferunt, foliisque sub omnibus hærent.'

"The 'Four Yew Trees,' and the mysterious company which you have assembled there, 'Death the Skeleton and Time the Shadow.' It is a sight not for every youthful poet to dream of; it is one of the last results he must have gone thinking for years for."

(Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, 1815.) In Crabb Robinson's Diary, a reference to the Yew-trees of Lorton and Borrowdale will be found under date Sept. 16 and 20, 1816.

"The pride of Lorton Vale" is now a ruin, and has lost all its ancient majesty: but, until the close of 1883, the "fraternal four" of Borrowdale were still to be seen "in grand assemblage." Every one who has felt the power of Wordsworth's poetry,—and especially those who had visited the Seathwaite valley, and read the Yew-Trees under the shade of that once "solemn and capacious grove" before 1884,—must have felt as if they had lost a personal friend, when they heard that the "grove" was gone. The great gale of December 11, 1883, smote it fiercely, uprooting one of the trees, and blowing the others to ribbands. The following is Mr. Rawnsley's account of the disaster:

'Last week the gale that ravaged England did the Lake country much harm. We could spare many of the larch plantations, and could hear (with a sigh) of the fall of the giant Scotch firs opposite the little Scafell Inn at Rosthwaite, and that Watendlath had lost its pines; but who could spare those ancient Yews, the great

"... fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved."

'For beneath their pillared shade since Wordsworth wrote his poem, that Yew-tree grove has suggested to many a wanderer up Borrowdale, and visitant to the Natural Temple,

"an ideal grove in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which they dimly listen."

'These Yew-trees, seemingly

"Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed,"

'have been ruthlessly overthrown. One has been uprooted bodily; all the leaders and branches of the others have been wrenched from the main trunk; and the three still standing are bare poles and broken wreckage. Until one visits the spot one can have no conception of the wholesale destruction that the hurricane has wrought; until he looks on the huge rosy-hearted branches he cannot guess the tremendous force with which the tornado had fallen upon that "sable roof of boughs."

'For tornado or whirlwind it must needs have been. The Yews grew under the eastern flank of the hill called Base Brown. The gale raged from the westward. One could hardly believe it possible that the trees could have been touched by it; for the barrier hill on which they grew,—and under whose shelter they have seen centuries of storm,—goes straight upwards, betwixt them and the west. It was only realizable when, standing amid the wreckage, and looking across the valley, it was seen that a larch plantation had been entirely levelled, and evidently by a wind that was coming from the east, and directly toward the Yew-trees. On enquiring at Seathwaite Farm, one found that all the slates blown from the roof of that building on the west side, had been whirled up clean over the roof: and we can only surmise that the winds rushing from the west and north-west, and meeting the bastions of Glaramara and the Sty-head slopes, were whirled round in the 'cul-de-sac' of the valley, and moved with churning motion back from east to west over the Seathwaite Farm, and so in straight line across the beck, and up the slope to the Yew-tree cluster. With what a wrenching, and with what violence, these trees were in a moment shattered, only those can guess who now witness the ruins of the pillared shade, upon the "grassless floor of red-brown hue."'"

Ed.

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"Who fancied what a pretty sight"

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

In the edition of 1807 this poem was No. VIII. of the series entitled "Moods of my own Mind." It was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Fancy," and in a MS. copy it was named The Coronet of Snowdrops.—Ed.

The Poem

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Who fancied what a pretty sight

This Rock would be if edged around

With living snow-drops? circlet bright!

How glorious to this orchard-ground!

Who loved the little Rock, and set

Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?

Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled

The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?

Of man mature, or matron sage?

Or old man toying with his age?

I asked—'twas whispered; The device

To each and all might well belong:

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.

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"It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I remember the instant my sister S. H., called me to the window of our Cottage, saying, "Look how beautiful is yon star! It has the sky all to itself." I composed the verses immediately.—I. F.]

This was No. XIII. of "Moods of my own Mind," in the edition of 1807. It was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

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It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,

And is descending on his embassy;

Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!

'Tis Hesperus—there he stands with glittering crown,

First admonition that the sun is down!

For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;

A few are near him still—and now the sky,

He hath it to himself—'tis all his own.

O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

Within me when I recognised thy light;

A moment I was startled at the sight:

And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

That I might step beyond my natural race

As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace

Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,

My Soul, an Apparition in the place,

Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove!

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O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

Within me when I recognised thy light;

A moment I was startled at the sight:

And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

That even I beyond my natural race

Might step as thou dost now: might one day trace

1815

O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought

A startling recollection to my mind

Of the distinguished few among mankind,

Who dare to step beyond their natural race,

As thou seem'st now to do:—nor was a thought

Denied—that even I might one day trace

1820

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1807.
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Footnote A:   Professor Dowden directs attention to the relation between these lines and the poem beginning "If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven."—Ed.
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Contents 1803
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Memorials of a Tour in Scotland

1803

These poems were first collected, under the above title, in the edition of 1827. In 1807, nine of them—viz. Rob Roy's Grave, The Solitary Reaper, Stepping Westward, Glen Almain, or, The Narrow Glen, The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband, To a Highland Girl, Sonnet, To the Sons of Burns after visiting the Grave of their Father, Yarrow Unvisited,—were printed under the title, "Poems written during a Tour in Scotland." This group begins the second volume of the edition of that year. But in 1815 and 1820—when Wordsworth began to arrange his poems in groups—they were distributed with the rest of the series in the several artificial sections. Although some were composed after the Tour was finished—and the order in which Wordsworth placed them is not the order of the Scotch Tour itself—it is advisable to keep to his own method of arrangement in dealing with this particular group, for the same reason that we retain it in such a series as the Duddon Sonnets.—Ed.

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Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)^A

Composed 1811.—Published 1827

The Poem

[Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started together from Town-end to make a tour in Scotland. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection; and he departed from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left Loch Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my Epistle to Sir George Beaumont.—I. F.]

The Poem

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The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains

Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;

Even for the tenants of the zone that lies

Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,

Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap

At will the crystal battlements, and peep

Into some other region, though less fair,

To see how things are made and managed there.

Change for the worse might please, incursion bold

Into the tracts of darkness and of cold;

O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer,

And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.

Such animation often do I find,

Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind,

Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,

Perchance without one look behind me cast,

Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth

Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.

O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign

Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;

Not like an outcast with himself at strife;

The slave of business, time, or care for life,

But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,

Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;—

To cull contentment upon wildest shores,

And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;

With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,

And having rights in all that we behold.

—Then why these lingering steps?—A bright adieu,

For a brief absence, proves that love is true;

Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn

That winds into itself for sweet return.

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Footnote A:   This first poem referring to the Scottish Tour of 1803, was not actually written till 1811. It originally formed the opening paragraph of the 'Epistle to Sir George Beaumont'. Wordsworth himself dated it 1804. It is every way desirable that it should introduce the series of poems referring to the Tour of 1803.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland:

"William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th."

Ed.

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At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death

Composed 1803^A.—Published 1842

The Poem

[For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It may be proper to add that the second of these pieces, though felt at the time, was not composed till many years after.—I. F.]

The Poem

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I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,

At thought of what I now behold:

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold

        Strike pleasure dead,

So sadness comes from out the mould

        Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,

And thou forbidden to appear?

As if it were thyself that's here

        I shrink with pain;

And both my wishes and my fear

        Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away

Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;

With chastened feelings would I pay

        The tribute due

To him, and aught that hides his clay

        From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth

He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,

Rose like a star that touching earth,

        For so it seems,

Doth glorify its humble birth

        With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,

The struggling heart, where be they now?—

Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,

        The prompt, the brave,

Slept, with the obscurest, in the low

        And silent grave.

I mourned with thousands, but as one

More deeply grieved, for He was gone

Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

        And showed my youth

How Verse may build a princely throne

        On humble truth.

Alas! where'er the current tends,

Regret pursues and with it blends,—

Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends

        By Skiddaw seen,—

Neighbours we were, and loving friends

        We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;

But heart with heart and mind with mind,

Where the main fibres are entwined,

        Through Nature's skill,

May even by contraries be joined

        More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;

Thou "poor Inhabitant below,"

At this dread moment—even so—

        Might we together

Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

        Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed

Within my reach; of knowledge graced

By fancy what a rich repast!

        But why go on?—

Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,

        His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,

(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)

Lies gathered to his Father's side,

        Soul-moving sight!

Yet one to which is not denied

        Some sad delight.

For

he

is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,

Harboured where none can be misled,

        Wronged, or distrest;

And surely here it may be said

        That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace

Checked oft-times in a devious race,

May He who halloweth the place

        Where Man is laid

Receive thy Spirit in the embrace

        For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,

Music that sorrow comes not near,

        A ritual hymn,

Chanted in love that casts out fear

        By Seraphim.

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But wherefore tremble? 'tis no place

Of pain and sorrow, but of grace,

Of shelter, and of silent peace,

And "friendly aid";

Grasped is he now in that embrace

For which he prayed.^a

MS.

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1845

Well might I mourn that He was gone

Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

When, breaking forth as nature's own,

It showed my youth

1842

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Footnote A:   It is dated thus by Wordsworth himself on three occasions, and the year of its composition is also indicated in the title of the poem.—Ed.
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Footnote B:  Compare Burns's poem To a Mountain Daisy, l. 15.—Ed.
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Footnote C:   See Burns's A Bard's Epitaph, l. 19.—Ed.
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Footnote D:  Compare The Tomb of Burns, by William Watson, 1895.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   Criffel.—Ed.
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Footnote F:  Annandale.—Ed.
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Sub-Footnote a:   See in his poem the Ode to Ruin.—Ed.
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Note:   The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of the Tour in Scotland:

"Thursday, August 18th.— Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of Burns's house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed.... Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.

'There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, 'there lies Mr. Such-a-one. I have forgotten his name. A remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.'

We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses.

'Is there a man whose judgment clear,

Can others teach the way to steer,

Yet runs himself life's mad career,

        Wild as the wave?

Here let him pause, and through a tear

        Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

        And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low

        And stained his name.'

"I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains, within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last view we had of them. Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neighbourhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say:

'Seurfell^E from the sky,

That Anadale^F doth crown, with a most amorous eye,

Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,

Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threatening him!'

"These lines recurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, including ourselves in the fancy, that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes."

Ed.

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Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence

Composed 1803.^A—Published 1842

The Poem

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Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow

Was wreathed—"The Vision" tells us how—

        With holly spray,

He faultered, drifted to and fro,

        And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng

Our minds when, lingering all too long,

Over the grave of Burns we hung

        In social grief—

Indulged as if it were a wrong

        To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

And prompt to welcome every gleam

        Of good and fair,

Let us beside this limpid Stream

        Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;

Think rather of those moments bright

When to the consciousness of right

        His course was true,

When Wisdom prospered in his sight

        And virtue grew.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,

Freely as in youth's season bland,

When side by side, his Book in hand,

        We wont to stray,

Our pleasure varying at command

        Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trod

These pathways, yon far-stretching road!

There lurks his home; in that Abode,

        With mirth elate,

Or in his nobly-pensive mood,

        The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes,

Before it humbly let us pause,

And ask of Nature, from what cause

        And by what rules

She trained her Burns to win applause

        That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen

Are felt the flashes of his pen;

He rules mid winter snows, and when

        Bees fill their hives;

Deep in the general heart of men

        His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime

Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,

And all that fetched the flowing rhyme

        From genuine springs,

Shall dwell together till old Time

        Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven

This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;

The rueful conflict, the heart riven

        With vain endeavour,

And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,

        Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,

When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear

On the frail heart the purest share

        With all that live?—

The best of what we do and are,

        Just God, forgive!

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Footnote A:  Though "suggested" on "the day following," these stanzas were not written then; but "many years after." They must, however, find a place in the "Memorials" of this 1803 Tour in Scotland.—Ed.
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Footnote B:   Burns's poem, thus named.—Ed.
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Note:   See the note to the previous poem. The line

'These pathways, yon far-stretching road!'

refers probably to the road to Brownhill, past Ellisland farmhouse where Burns lived. "The day following" would be Aug. 19th, 1803. The extract which follows from the Journal is a further illustration of the poem. August 8th.

"... Travelled through the vale of Nith, here little like a vale, it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on each side, in outline resembling the old-fashioned valances of a bed. There is a great deal of arable land; the corn ripe; trees here and there—plantations, clumps, coppices, a newness in everything. So much of the gorse and broom rooted out that you wonder why it is not all gone, and yet there seems to be almost as much gorse and broom as corn; and they grow one among another you know not how. Crossed the Nith; the vale becomes narrow, and very pleasant; cornfields, green hills, clay cottages; the river's bed rocky, with woody banks. Left the Nith about a mile and a half, and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn, where we slept. The view from the windows was pleasing, though some travellers might have been disposed to quarrel with it for its general nakedness; yet there was abundance of corn. It is an open country—open, yet all over hills. At a little distance were many cottages among trees, that looked very pretty. Brownhill is about seven or eight miles from Ellisland. I fancied to myself, while I was sitting in the parlour, that Burns might have caroused there, for most likely his rounds extended so far, and this thought gave a melancholy interest to the smoky walls...."

On Dec. 23, 1839, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry Reed, Philadelphia:

"The other day I chanced to be looking over a MS. poem belonging to the year 1803, though not actually composed till many years afterwards. It was suggested by visiting the neighbourhood of Dumfries, in which Burns had resided, and where he died: it concluded thus:

'Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven, etc.'

I instantly added, the other day,

'But why to Him confine the prayer, etc.'

The more I reflect upon this, the more I feel justified in attaching comparatively small importance to any literary monument that I may be enabled to leave behind. It is well however, I am convinced, that men think otherwise in the earlier part of their lives...."

It may be mentioned that in his note to the "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years," (1842), Wordsworth does not quote from the text of his sister's Journal,—which was first published in 1875,—but from some other copy of it.—Ed.

Contents 1803
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To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father^A

Composed before 1807^B—Published 1807

The Poem

The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church-yard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses:

'Is there a man whose judgment clear, etc.'

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.—W. W. 1827.^C

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in the 1815 and 1820 editions.—Ed.

The Poem

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'Mid crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

        With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns

        Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill

Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill

        Must ye display;

If ye would give the better will

        Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if the Poet's wit ye share,

        Like him can speed

The social hour—of tenfold care

        There will be need;

For honest men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,—and fool and rake

        Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make

        A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,

And add your voices to the quire

That sanctify the cottage fire

        With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,

        His spirit greet;

Or where,'mid "lonely heights and hows,"

He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

Or wiped his honourable brows

        Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

        Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray

Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;

But ne'er to a seductive lay

        Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray,

        Is light from Heaven."

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

Be independent, generous, brave;

Your Father such example gave,

        And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

        And think, and fear!

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Ye now are panting up life's hill!

'Tis twilight time of good and ill,

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1840

Strong bodied if ye be to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if your Father's wit ye share,

Then, then indeed,

Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care

1807

... for tenfold care

1827

The text of 1827 is otherwise identical with that of 1840.
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Variant 3:  

1840

For honest men delight will take

To shew you favor for his sake,

Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake

1807

For their beloved Poet's sake,

Even honest men delight will take

To flatter you; ...

1820

Even honest Men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,— ...

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Footnote A:   In the edition of 1807, this poem has the title Address to the Sons of Burns after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803). Slight changes were made in the title afterwards.—Ed.
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Footnote B:   Dorothy Wordsworth wrote, in her Recollections of this tour, under date August 18th, 1803,

"William wrote long afterwards the following Address to the sons of the ill-fated poet."

Ed.
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Footnote C:   This explanatory note appears in every edition of the Poems from 1827 to 1850. It is taken (but not literally) from the Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland as published in 1875.—Ed.
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Footnote D:  From Burns's Epistle to James Smith, l. 53.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   From Burns's poem, The Vision, Duan Second.—Ed.
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Footnote F:   In the edition of 1807, the poem began with what is now the second stanza, and consisted of four stanzas only, viz. Nos. ii., iii., iv., and viii. Stanzas i., v., vi., and vii. were added in 1827. Stanza iii. was omitted in 1820, but restored in 1827.—Ed.
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Note:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of this Tour we find, under date August 18, 1803:

"The grave of Burns's Son, which we had just seen by the side of his Father, and some stories heard at Dumfries respecting the dangers his surviving children were exposed to, filled us with melancholy concern, which had a kind of connection with ourselves."

"The body of Burns was not allowed to remain long in this place. To suit the plan of a rather showy mausoleum his remains were removed into a more commodious spot of the same kirkyard on the 5th July 1815."—(Allan Cunningham.)

Ellen Irwin; or, the Braes of Kirtle, comes next in this series of "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803." It has already been printed, however, (p. 124), in its proper chronological place, among the poems belonging to the year 1800. —Ed.

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To a Highland Girl

(at Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond)

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

Classed in 1815 and 1820 as one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

[This delightful creature and her demeanour are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. The sort of prophecy with which the verses conclude has, through God's goodness, been realized; and now, approaching the close of my 73rd year, I have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful objects with which she was surrounded. She is alluded to in the poem of 'The Three Cottage Girls' among my Continental Memorials. In illustration of this class of poems I have scarcely anything to say beyond what is anticipated in my Sister's faithful and admirable Journal.—I. F.]

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Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these grey rocks; that household lawn;

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;

This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake;

This little bay; a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy Abode—

In truth together do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream;

Such Forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep!

But, O fair Creature! in the light

Of common day, so heavenly bright,

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart;

God shield thee to thy latest years!

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;

And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray

For thee when I am far away:

For never saw I mien, or face,

In which more plainly I could trace

Benignity and home-bred sense

Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered, like a random seed,

Remote from men, Thou dost not need

The embarrassed look of shy distress,

And maidenly shamefacedness:

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear

The freedom of a Mountaineer:

A face with gladness overspread!

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!

And seemliness complete, that sways

Thy courtesies, about thee plays;

With no restraint, but such as springs

From quick and eager visitings

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach

Of thy few words of English speech:

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife

That gives thy gestures grace and life!

So have I, not unmoved in mind,

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—

Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull

For thee who art so beautiful?

O happy pleasure! here to dwell

Beside thee in some heathy dell;

Adopt your homely ways and dress,

A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!

But I could frame a wish for thee

More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea; and I would have

Some claim upon thee, if I could,

Though but of common neighbourhood.

What joy to hear thee, and to see!

Thy elder Brother I would be,

Thy Father—anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace

Hath led me to this lonely place.

Joy have I had; and going hence

I bear away my recompence.

In spots like these it is we prize

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:

Then, why should I be loth to stir?

I feel this place was made for her;

To give new pleasure like the past,

Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;

For I, methinks, till I grow old,

As fair before me shall behold,

As I do now, the cabin small,

The lake, the bay, the waterfall;

And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 A B

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1837

... this ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1827

In truth together ye do seem

1807

In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem

1837

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1827.
return


Variant 3:   The two preceding lines were added in 1845.
return


Variant 4:  

1845

Yet, dream and vision ...

1807

... or vision ...

1837

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Variant 5:  

1845

I neither know thee ...

1807

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Variant 6:  

1827

Sweet looks, ...

1807

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Footnote A:  

"The distribution of 'these,' 'that,' and 'those' in these two lines, was attained in 1845, after various changes. "

(Edward Dowden.)
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Virgil's Eclogues, x. 35:

'Atque utinam ex vobis unus, etc.'

Ed.
return

Note:   In her Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:

"Sunday, August 28th.—... After long waiting, the girls, who had been on the look-out, informed us that the boat was coming. I went to the waterside, and saw a cluster of people on the opposite shore; but, being yet at a distance, they looked more like soldiers surrounding a carriage than a group of men and women; red and green were the distinguishable colours. We hastened to get ourselves ready as soon as we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than we expected, the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew near we could distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks, and green umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all in motion with small waves, while the swollen waterfall roared in our ears. The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's edge by the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one after another. It did not rain much, but the women held up their umbrellas; they were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and with their scarlet cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch bonnets, made a gay appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the boat, which even imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in its tumult, and the restless grey waves; the young men laughed and shouted, the lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to be in a bustle to be away. I remember well with what haste the mistress of the house where we were ran up to seek after her child, and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly she inquired how we had fared, if we had had a good fire, had been well waited upon, etc. All this in three minutes—for the boatman had another party to bring from the other side, and hurried us off.

"The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. Macfarlane's gave us very favourable impressions on this our first entrance into the Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with their kindness to us, and the beautiful face and figure of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me, a living image as it will be to my dying day. The following poem was written by William not long after our return from Scotland."

Compare the poem called The Three Cottage Girls, in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820," published in 1822.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen

Composed (possibly) in 1803.—Published 1807

Classed in 1815 and 1820 with the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

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line number

In this still place, remote from men,

Sleeps Ossian, in the

Narrow Glen

;

In this still place, where murmurs on

But one meek streamlet, only one:

He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death;

And should, methinks, when all was past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And everything unreconciled;

In some complaining, dim retreat,

For fear and melancholy meet;

But this is calm; there cannot be

A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it?—I blame them not

Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

Was moved; and in such way expressed

Their notion of its perfect rest.

A convent, even a hermit's cell,

Would break the silence of this Dell:

It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:

The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere

Yet happy feelings of the dead:

And, therefore, was it rightly said

That Ossian, last of all his race!

Lies buried in this lonely place.

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And ...

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Footnote A:   Compare the poem To the Lady Fleming, stanza iii. ll. 28-9.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In the Statistical Account of Scotland, however—drawn up by the parish ministers of the county, and edited by Sir John Sinclair—both the river and the glen are spelt Almon, by the Rev. Mr. Erskine, who wrote the account of Monzie Parish in Perthshire. This was in 1795. A recent authority states:

"'Glenamon,' in Ayrshire, and 'Glenalmond,' in Perthshire, are both from the corrupted spelling of the word 'Avon,' which derives from its being very nearly the pronunciation of the Gaelic word for 'a river.' These names are from 'Gleann-abhuinn,' that is,'the valley of the river.'"

(See the Gaelic Topography of Scotland, by James A. Robertson, Edinburgh, 1859.)—Ed.
return

Note:   The glen is Glenalmond, in Perthshire, between Crieff and Amulree, known locally as "the Sma' Glen." I am not aware that it was ever called "Glen Almain," till Wordsworth gave it that singularly un-Scottish name.^B It must have been a warm August day, after a tract of dry weather, when he went through it, or the Almond would scarcely have been called a "small streamlet." In many seasons of the year the distinctive features of the Glen would be more appropriately indicated by the words, which the poet uses by way of contrast with his own experience of it, viz. a place

'Where sights are rough, and sounds are wild,

And everything unreconciled.'

But his characterization of the place—a glen, the charm of which is little known—in the stillness of an autumn afternoon, is as true to nature as any of his interpretations of the spirit of the hills and vales of Westmoreland. As yet there is no farm-house, scarcely even a sheiling, to "break the silence of this Dell." The following is Dorothy Wordsworth's account of their walk through it on Friday, September 9th, 1803:

"Entered the glen at a small hamlet at some distance from the head, and, turning aside a few steps, ascended a hillock which commanded a view to the top of it—a very sweet scene, a green valley, not very narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, almost invisible in a misty green of afternoon light. At this hamlet we crossed a bridge, and the road led us down the glen, which had become exceedingly narrow, and so continued to the end: the hills on both sides heathy and rocky, very steep, but continuous; the rock not single or overhanging, not scooped into caverns, or sounding with torrents; there are no trees, no houses, no traces of cultivation, not one outstanding object. It is truly a solitude, the road even making it appear still more so; the bottom of the valley is mostly smooth and level, the brook not noisy: everything is simple and undisturbed, and while we passed through it the whole place was shady, cool, clear, and solemn. At the end of the long valley we ascended a hill to a great height, and reached the top, when the sun, on the point of setting, shed a soft yellow light upon every eminence. The prospect was very extensive; over hollows and plains, no towns, and few houses visible—a prospect, extensive as it was, in harmony with the secluded dell, and fixing its own peculiar character of removedness from the world, and the secure possession of the quiet of nature more deeply in our minds. The following poem was written by William on hearing of a tradition relating to it, which we did not know when we were there."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Stepping Westward

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward?"—W. W. 1807.

Classed in 1815 and 1820 among the "Poems of the Imagination." —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

"

What, you are stepping westward?

"—"

Yea.

"

'Twould be a

wildish

destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange Land, and far from home,

Were in this place the guests of Chance:

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

Though home or shelter he had none,

With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;

Behind, all gloomy to behold;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of

heavenly

destiny:

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound

Of something without place or bound;

And seemed to give me spiritual right

To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake

Was walking by her native lake:

The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy:

Its power was felt; and while my eye

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

The echo of the voice enwrought

A human sweetness with the thought

Of travelling through the world that lay

Before me in my endless way.

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... seemed to me

In MS. letter to Sir G. Beaumont. N. D.

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Footnote A:   Italics were first used in 1855.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:   The following is from the Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland:

"Sunday, Sept. 11th.—We have never had a more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond and the three pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond, which we had seen from the garrison, were very majestic under the clear sky, the lake perfectly calm, the air sweet and mild. I felt that it was much more interesting to visit a place where we have been before than it can possibly be the first time, except under peculiar circumstances. The sun had been set for some time, when, being within a quarter of a mile of the ferry man's hut, our path having led us close to the shore of the calm lake, we met two neatly-dressed women, without hats, who had probably been taking their Sunday evening's walk. One of them said to us in a friendly, soft tone of voice, 'What, you are stepping westward?' I cannot describe how affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the western sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun. William wrote the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings and mine."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Solitary Reaper

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820. —Ed.

The Poem

text

variant

footnote

line number

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 A

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1807

... singing ...

MS.

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Variant 2:  

1827

So sweetly to reposing bands

1807

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Variant 3:  

1837

No sweeter voice was ever heard

1807

... sound ...

MS.

Such thrilling voice was never heard

1827

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Variant 4:  

1815

... sung

1807

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Variant 5:  

1820

I listen'd till I had my fill:

1807

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Variant 6:  

1807

And when ...

1827

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.
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Footnote A:   Compare The Ancient Mariner(part ii. stanza 6):

'And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:   The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Tour: 13th Sept. 1803.

"As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way being pleasantly varied—through coppices or open fields, and passing farm-houses, though always with an intermixture of cultivated ground. It was harvest-time, and the fields were quietly—might I be allowed to say pensively?—enlivened by small companies of reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a single person so employed. The following poem was suggested to William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's Tour in Scotland."

In a note appended to the editions 1807 to 1820, Wordsworth wrote:

"This Poem was suggested by a beautiful sentence in a MS. 'Tour in Scotland,' written by a Friend, the last line being taken from it verbatim."

The first part of Wilkinson's Tours to the British Mountains, which was published in 1824, narrates his journey in Scotland (it took place in 1787); and the following sentence occurs in the record of his travels near Loch Lomond (p. 12),

"Passed a female who was reaping alone: she sung in Erse, as she bended over her sickle; the sweetest human voice I ever heard: her strains were tenderly melancholy, and felt delicious, long after they were heard no more."

There can be no doubt that this is the sentence referred to both by Dorothy and William Wordsworth. Thomas Wilkinson was the friend, in whose memory Wordsworth wrote the poem To the Spade of a Friend, composed while we were labouring together in his pleasure-ground. They were comparatively near neighbours, as Wilkinson lived near Yanwath on the Emont; and he had given his MS. to the Wordsworth family to read. I have received some additional information about this MS., and Wordsworth's knowledge of it, from Mr. Wilson Robinson, who writes,

"From all the evidence, I conclude that Wilkinson's 'Tour to the Highlands' was shown in manuscript to his friends soon after his return;—that he was not only willing to show it, but even to allow it to be copied, though reluctant to publish it;—that there was sufficient intimacy between him and the Wordsworths to account for his showing or lending the manuscript to them, especially as they had travelled over much of the same ground, and would therefore be more interested in it; and that in fact it was never published till 1824."

When Wordsworth was living at Coleorton during the late autumn of 1806 he wrote to Wilkinson:

"... What shall I say in apology for your Journal, which is now locked up with my manuscripts at Grasmere. As I could not go over to your part of the country myself, my intention was to have taken it with me to Kendal,... to be carefully transmitted to you; unluckily, most unluckily, in the hurry of departure, I forgot it, together with two of my own manuscripts which were along with it; and I am afraid you will be standing in great need of it.... If you do not want it, it is in a place where it can take no injury, and I may have the pleasure of delivering it to you myself in the spring...."

Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Address to Kilchurn Castle

Upon Loch Awe

Begun 1803.—Published 1827

The Poem

"From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view,—a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it)^A at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the Water,—mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low-grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately—not dismantled of Turrets—nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin."

Extract from the Journal of my Companion.—W. W. 1827.

[The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the Ruin, from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.—I. F.]

The Poem

text

variant

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Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream

Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are

That touch each other to the quick in modes

Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care

Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire,

Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place

And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem

But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,

Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills

Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)

Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims

To reverence, suspends his own; submitting

All that the God of Nature hath conferred,

All that he holds in common with the stars,

To the memorial majesty of Time

Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!

Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light

Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,

Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule

Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite

To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,

In willing admiration and respect,

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called

Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,

Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

The chronicle were welcome that should call

Into the compass of distinct regard

The toils and struggles of thy infant years!

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;

Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,

Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,

To the perception of this Age, appear

Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued

And quieted in character—the strife,

The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!"

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... has ...

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... of thy infancy!

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Footnote A:   The clause within brackets was added in 1837.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  The Tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.—W. W. 1827.
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Note:   From the following passage in Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of their Tour, it will be seen that the poet altered the text considerably in making his quotation in 1827: August 31, 1803.

"When we had ascended half-way up the hill, directed by the man, I took a nearer foot-path, and at the top came in view of a most impressive scene, a ruined castle on an island almost in the middle of the last compartment of the lake, backed by a mountain cove, down which came a roaring stream. The castle occupied every foot of the island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water; mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine between; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the castle was wild, yet stately, not dismantled of its turrets, nor the walls broken down, though completely in ruin. After having stood some minutes I joined William on the highroad, and both wishing to stay longer near this place, we requested the man to drive his little boy on to Dalmally, about two miles further, and leave the car at the inn. He told us the ruin was called Kilchurn Castle, that it belonged to Lord Breadalbane, and had been built by one of the ladies of that family for her defence, during her lord's absence at the Crusades; for which purpose she levied a tax of seven years' rent upon her tenants; he said that from that side of the lake it did not appear, in very dry weather, to stand upon an island, but that it was possible to go over to it without being wet-shod. We were very lucky in seeing it after a great flood; for its enchanting effect was chiefly owing to its situation in the lake, a decayed palace rising out of the plain of waters! I have called it a palace, for such feeling it gave me, though having been built as a place of defence, a castle or fortress. We turned again and reascended the hill, and sate a long time in the middle of it looking on the castle, and the huge mountain cove opposite, and William, addressing himself to the ruin, poured out these verses."

Compare Wordsworth's description of this ruin in his Guide through the District of the Lakes.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Rob Roy's Grave

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland. —W. W. 1807.

[I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good authority, namely, that of a well educated Lady who lived at the head of the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood.—I. F.]

In the copy of Rob Roy's Grave, transcribed in Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of the Tour in Scotland of 1803, there are several important variations of text, which occur in none of the printed editions of the poem. These are indicated (to distinguish them from other readings) by the initials D. W.—Ed. One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

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A famous man is Robin Hood,

The English ballad-singer's joy!

And Scotland has a thief as good,

An outlaw of as daring mood;

She has her brave

Rob Roy

!

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,

And let us chant a passing stave,

In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart

And wondrous length and strength of arm:

Nor craved he more to quell his foes,

Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as

wise

as brave;

Forgive me if the phrase be strong;—

A Poet worthy of Rob Roy

Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;

As wise in thought as bold in deed:

For in the principles of things

He

sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, "What need of books?

Burn all the statutes and their shelves:

They stir us up against our kind;

And worse, against ourselves.

"We have a passion—make a law,

Too false to guide us or control!

And for the law itself we fight

In bitterness of soul.

"And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose

Distinctions that are plain and few:

These find I graven on my heart:

That

tells me what to do.

"The creatures see of flood and field,

And those that travel on the wind!

With them no strife can last; they live

In peace, and peace of mind.

"For why?—because the good old rule

Sufficeth them, the simple plan,

That they should take, who have the power,

And they should keep who can.

"A lesson that is quickly learned,

A signal this which all can see!

Thus nothing here provokes the strong

To wanton cruelty.

"All freakishness of mind is checked;

He tamed, who foolishly aspires;

While to the measure of his might

Each fashions his desires.

"All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall

By strength of prowess or of wit:

'Tis God's appointment who must sway,

And who is to submit.

"Since, then, the rule of right is plain,

And longest life is but a day;

To have my ends, maintain my rights,

I'll take the shortest way."

And thus among these rocks he lived,

Through summer heat and winter snow:

The Eagle, he was lord above,

And Rob was lord below.

So was it—

would

, at least, have been

But through untowardness of fate;

For Polity was then too strong—

He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?

For, were the bold Man living

now

,

How might he flourish in his pride,

With buds on every bough!

Then rents and factors, rights of chase,

Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains,

Would all have seemed but paltry things,

Not worth a moment's pains.

Rob Roy had never lingered here,

To these few meagre Vales confined;

But thought how wide the world, the times

How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said,

"Do Thou my sovereign will enact

From land to land through half the earth!

Judge thou of law and fact!

"'Tis fit that we should do our part,

Becoming, that mankind should learn

That we are not to be surpassed

In fatherly concern.

"Of old things all are over old,

Of good things none are good enough:—

We'll show that we can help to frame

A world of other stuff.

"I, too, will have my kings that take

From me the sign of life and death:

Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,

Obedient to my breath."

And, if the word had been fulfilled,

As

might

have been, then, thought of joy!

France would have had her present Boast,

And we our own Rob Roy!

Oh! say not so; compare them not;

I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!

Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all

Here standing by thy grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts

Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!

Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love

The

liberty

of man.

And, had it been thy lot to live

With us who now behold the light,

Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself,

And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor man's stay,

The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;

And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,

Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh

Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays

Alone upon Loch Veol's heights,

And by Loch Lomond's braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,

Are faces that attest the same;

The proud heart flashing through the eyes,

At sound of

Rob Roy's

name.

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Variant 1:  

1807

And Scotland boasts of one as good,

She has her own Rob Roy.

1803. D.W.

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Variant 2:  

1807

... Outlaw ...

1803. D.W.

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Variant 3:  

1807

... daring ...

1803. D.W.

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Variant 4:   Stanzas 3 and 4 are thus combined by D. W., and also in a printed (not published) version, given in a copy of the 1807 edition.

1807

Yet Robin was as wise as brave,

As wise in thought as bold in deed,

For in the principles of things

He sought his moral creed.

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Variant 5:  

1827

... which ...

1807

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Variant 6:  

1807

... tyrannous ...

1803. D. W.

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Variant 7:  

1807

And freakishness ...

1803. D. W.

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Variant 8:  

1807

... their ...

MS.

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Variant 9:  

1807

All fashion their desires.

1803. D. W.

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Variant 10:  

1815

"Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,

1807

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Variant 11:  

1827

Through summer's heat and winter's snow:

1807

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Variant 12:  

1807

The Rents and Land-marks, Rights of Chase,

Sheriffs and Factors, Lairds and Thanes,

1803. D. W.

Sheriffs and Factors, rights of chase,

Their Lairds, and their domains,

MS.

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Variant 13:  

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... our brave ...

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Variant 14:  

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For Robin was ...

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Variant 15:  

1815

Had Robin's to command.

1807

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Variant 16:  

1827

Kindling with instantaneous joy

1803. D.W.

And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,

1807

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Footnote A:   The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that "he could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright." According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman; after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was never conquered but once, and this not till he was an Old Man.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark

Note:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Scotch Tour the following occurs:

"August 27, 1803.—We mentioned Rob Roy, and the eyes of all glistened; even the lady of the house, who was very diffident, and no great talker, exclaimed, 'He was a good man, Rob Roy! he had been dead only about eighty years, had lived in the next farm, which belonged to him, and there his bones were laid.' He was a famous swordsman. Having an arm much longer than other men, he had a greater command with his sword. As a proof of the length of his arm, they told us that he could garter his tartan stockings below the knee without stooping, and added a dozen different stories of single combats, which he had fought, all in perfect good humour, merely to prove his prowess. I daresay they had stories of this kind which would hardly have been exhausted in the long evenings of a whole December week, Rob Roy being as famous here as even Robin Hood was in the forest of Sherwood; he also robbed from the rich, giving to the poor, and defending them from oppression. They tell of his confining the factor of the Duke of Montrose in one of the islands of Loch Ketterine, after having taken his money from him—the Duke's rents—in open day, while they were sitting at table. He was a formidable enemy of the Duke, but being a small laird against a greater, was overcome at last, and forced to resign all his lands on the Braes of Loch Lomond, including the caves which we visited, on account of the money he had taken from the Duke and could not repay."

September 12:

"Descended into Glengyle, above Loch Ketterine, and passed through Mr. Macfarlane's grounds, that is, through the whole of the glen, where there was now no house left but his. We stopped at his door to inquire after the family, though with little hope of finding them at home, having seen a large company at work in a hay-field, whom we conjectured to be his whole household, as it proved, except a servant-maid who answered our enquiries. We had sent the ferryman forward from the head of the glen to bring the boat round from the place where he left it to the other side of the lake. Passed the same farm-house we had such good reason to remember, and went up to the burying-ground that stood so sweetly near the water-side. The ferryman had told us that Rob Roy's grave was there, so we could not pass on without going up to the spot. There were several tombstones, but the inscriptions were either worn-out or unintelligible to us, and the place choked up with nettles and brambles. You will remember the description I have given of the spot. I have nothing here to add, except the following poem which it suggested to William."

Rob Roy was buried at the Kirkton of Balquhidder, near the outlet of Loch Voil in Perthshire. There are three sculptured stones in the rude burial-place of the Macgregors, at the eastern end of the old church. The one with the long claymore marks the resting-place of Rob Roy's wife; the one opposite on the other side is the tomb of his eldest son; and the central stone, more elaborately carved, marks the grave of the hero himself.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Sonnet composed at —— Castle

Composed September 18, 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

[The castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told to me by Walter Scott.—I. F.]

In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

The Poem

text

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Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!

Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,

And love of havoc, (for with such disease

Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word

To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable Trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,

Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored

The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain

The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze

On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,

And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,

And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

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1807

Now as I live, I pity that great Lord,

Whom pure despite ...

MS. letter to Sir Walter Scott. Oct. 1803.

Ill wishes shall attend the unworthy Lord

MS.

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Note:  

"Sunday, September 18th.—After breakfast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill, over-looking the Tweed, a strong square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate, though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the high walls that fenced it broken down. The Tweed winds between green steeps, upon which, and close to the river side, large flocks of sheep pasturing; higher still are the grey mountains; but I need not describe the scene, for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he wrote the same day; the five last lines, at least, of his poem will impart to you more of the feeling of the place than it would be possible for me to do."

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland.) Writing to Sir Walter Scott (October 16, 1803), Wordsworth enclosed a copy of this sonnet, with the variation of text which has been quoted. Lockhart tells us

"in that original shape Scott always recited it, and few lines in the language were more frequently in his mouth."

Compare Burns' Verses on the destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig, which refer to the same subject.—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

Yarrow Unvisited

Composed 1803.—Published 1807

The Poem

See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"

W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

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From Stirling castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled;

And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my "

winsome Marrow

,"

"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,

And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk,

frae

Selkirk town,

Who have been buying, selling,

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;

Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

But we will downward with the Tweed,

Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:

Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow?

"What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;

My True-love sighed for sorrow;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;

The swan on still St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swan and shadow!

We will not see them; will not go,

To-day, nor yet to-morrow;

Enough if in our hearts we know

There's such a place as Yarrow.

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!

It must, or we shall rue it:

We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!

For when we're there, although 'tis fair,

'Twill be another Yarrow.

"If Care with freezing years should come,

And wandering seem but folly,—

Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny holms of Yarrow!"

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 A B

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Footnote A:   See Hamilton's Ballad as above.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In his Recollections of Wordsworth, Aubrey de Vere reports a conversation, in which the poet said to him,

"Scott misquoted in one of his novels my lines on Yarrow, He makes me write,

'The swans on sweet St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swans and shadow;'

but I wrote,

'The swan on still St. Mary's Lake.'

Never could I have written 'swans' in the plural. The scene when I saw it, with its still and dim lake, under the dusky hills, was one of utter loneliness: there was one swan, and one only, stemming the water, and the pathetic loneliness of the region gave importance to the one companion of that swan, its own white image in the water. It was for that reason that I recorded the Swan and the Shadow. Had there been many swans and many shadows, they would have implied nothing as regards the character of the place; and I should have said nothing about them."

See his Essays, chiefly on Poetry, vol. ii. p. 277. Wordsworth wrote to his friend, Walter Scott, to thank him for a copy of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, and in return sent a copy of these stanzas, Yarrow Unvisited. Scott replied gratefully on the 16th March 1805, and said,

"... I by no means admit your apology, however ingeniously and artfully stated, for not visiting the bonny holms of Yarrow, and certainly will not rest till I have prevailed upon you to compare the ideal with the real stream."

Wordsworth had asked him if he could suggest any name more true to the place than Burnmill, in the line, "The sweets of Burn-mill meadow." Scott replied:

"We have Broad-meadow upon Yarrow, which with the addition of green or fair or any other epithet of one syllable, will give truth to the locality, and supply the place of Burnmill meadow, which we have not. ... I like your swan upon St. Mary's Lake. How came you to know that it is actually frequented by that superb bird?"

(See Familiar Letters of Sir Walter Scott, vol. i. pp. 28, 29.)—Ed.
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Note:  

"September 18, 1803.—We left the Tweed when we were within about a mile and a half or two miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we reached the spot—a single stone house, without a tree near it or to be seen from it. On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name, the woman of the house showed us all possible civility, but her slowness was really amusing. I should suppose it a house little frequented, for there is no appearance of an inn. Mr. Scott, who she told me was a very clever gentleman, 'goes there in the fishing season;' but indeed Mr. Scott is respected everywhere; I believe that by favour of his name one might be hospitably entertained throughout all the borders of Scotland. We dined and drank tea—did not walk out, for there was no temptation; a confined barren prospect from the window.

"At Clovenford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could not but think of the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of reserving the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which, after our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here transcribe."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband

Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807

The Poem

At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.—W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

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Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,

And call a train of laughing Hours;

And bid them dance, and bid them sing;

And thou, too, mingle in the ring!

Take to thy heart a new delight;

If not, make merry in despite

That there is One who scorns thy power:—

But dance! for under Jedborough Tower,

A Matron dwells who, though she bears

The weight of more than seventy years,

Lives in the light of youthful glee,

And she will dance and sing with thee.

Nay! start not at that Figure—there!

Him who is rooted to his chair!

Look at him—look again! for he

Hath long been of thy family.

With legs that move not, if they can,

And useless arms, a trunk of man,

He sits, and with a vacant eye;

A sight to make a stranger sigh!

Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:

His world is in this single room:

Is this a place for mirthful cheer?

Can merry-making enter here?

The joyous Woman is the Mate

Of him in that forlorn estate!

He breathes a subterraneous damp;

But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:

He is as mute as Jedborough Tower:

She jocund as it was of yore,

With all its bravery on; in times

When all alive with merry chimes,

Upon a sun-bright morn of May,

It roused the Vale to holiday.

I praise thee, Matron! and thy due

Is praise, heroic praise, and true!

With admiration I behold

Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:

Thy looks, thy gestures, all present

The picture of a life well spent:

This do I see; and something more;

A strength unthought of heretofore!

Delighted am I for thy sake;

And yet a higher joy partake:

Our Human-nature throws away

Its second twilight, and looks gay;

A land of promise and of pride

Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed

Within himself as seems, composed;

To fear of loss, and hope of gain,

The strife of happiness and pain,

Utterly dead! yet in the guise

Of little infants, when their eyes

Begin to follow to and fro

The persons that before them go,

He tracks her motions, quick or slow.

Her buoyant spirit can prevail

Where common cheerfulness would fail;

She strikes upon him with the heat

Of July suns; he feels it sweet;

An animal delight though dim!

'Tis all that now remains for him!

The more I looked, I wondered more—

And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er,

Some inward trouble suddenly

Broke from the Matron's strong black eye—

A remnant of uneasy light,

A flash of something over-bright!

Nor long this mystery did detain

My thoughts;—she told in pensive strain

That she had borne a heavy yoke,

Been stricken by a twofold stroke;

Ill health of body; and had pined

Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

So be it!—but let praise ascend

To Him who is our lord and friend!

Who from disease and suffering

Hath called for thee a second spring;

Repaid thee for that sore distress

By no untimely joyousness;

Which makes of thine a blissful state;

And cheers thy melancholy Mate!

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 A B

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1827

For ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1837

... under Jedborough Tower

There liveth in the prime of glee,

A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,

And She ...

1807

There lives a woman of seventy-three,

And she will dance and sing with thee,

MS.

A Matron dwells, who though she bears

Our mortal complement of years,

Lives in the light of youthful glee,

1827

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Variant 3:  

1827

... for mirth and cheer?

1807

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Variant 4:  

1827

I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;

The more I look'd I wonder'd more:

1807

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Variant 5:  

1837

When suddenly I seem'd to espy

A trouble in her strong black eye;

1807

A moment gave me to espy

A trouble ...

1827

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Variant 6:  

1827

And soon she made this matter plain;

And told me, in a thoughtful strain,

1807

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Variant 7:  

As bad almost as Life can bring,

Added in MS.

return

Footnote A:   Compare Tennyson's Deserted House, stanza iv.:

'Come away: no more of mirth

Is here, or merry-making sound.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare stanza xiii. of Resolution and Independence, p. 318.—Ed.
return

Note:   Sept. 20, 1803.

"We were received with hearty welcome by a good woman, who, though above seventy years old, moved about as briskly as if she was only seventeen. Those parts of the house which we were to occupy were neat and clean; she showed me every corner, and, before I had been ten minutes in the house, opened her very drawers that I might see what a stock of linen she had; then asked how long we should stay, and said she wished we were come for three months. She was a most remarkable person; the alacrity with which she ran up-stairs when we rung the bell, and guessed at, and strove to prevent, our wants was surprising; she had a quick eye, and keen strong features, and a joyousness in her motions, like what used to be in old Molly when she was particularly elated. I found afterwards that she had been subject to fits of dejection and ill-health: we then conjectured that her overflowing gaiety and strength might in part be attributed to the same cause as her former dejection. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sate in a chair with scarcely the power to move a limb—an affecting contrast! The old woman said they had been a very hard-working pair; they had wrought like slaves at their trade—her husband had been a currier; and she told me how they had portioned off their daughters with money, and each a feather bed, and that in their old age they had laid out the little they could spare in building and furnishing that house, and she added with pride that she had lived in her youth in the family of Lady Egerton, who was no high lady, and now was in the habit of coming to her house whenever she was at Jedburgh, and a hundred other things; for when she once began with Lady Egerton, she did not know how to stop, nor did I wish it, for she was very entertaining. Mr. Scott sat with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone our hostess came to see if we wanted anything, and to wish us good-night. On all occasions her manners were governed by the same spirit: there was no withdrawing one's attention from her. We were so much interested that William, long afterwards, thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations which she had excited, and which then remained as vividly in his mind as at the moment when we lost sight of Jedburgh."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

"Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"^A

Composed September 25, 1803.—Published 1815

The Poem

[This was actually composed the last day of our tour between Dalston and Grasmere.—I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" in 1815 and 1820. —Ed.

The Poem

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variant

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Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!

Say that we come, and come by this day's light;

Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,

But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;

There let a mystery of joy prevail,

The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,

And Rover whine, as at a second sight

Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:

And from that Infant's face let joy appear;

Yea, let our Mary's one companion child—

That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled

With intimations manifold and dear,

While we have wandered over wood and wild—

Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

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1837

Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!

1815

... dale,

1827

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Variant 2:  

1837

Glad tidings!—spread them over field and height;

1815

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Variant 3:  

1837

The Kitten frolic with unruly might,

1815

The happy Kitten bound with frolic might,

1827

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Footnote A:   In the editions of 1815 and 1820, this poem bore the title, On approaching Home, after a Tour in Scotland, 1803,—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note:  

"Sunday, September 25, 1803.—A beautiful autumnal day. Breakfasted at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, 1803.)—Ed.

Contents 1803
Main Contents

The Blind Highland Boy

A Tale Told by the Fire-side, after Returning to the Vale of Grasmere^A

Date of composition uncertain.—Published 1807

The Poem

[The story was told me by George Mackereth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shores of the Loch.—I.F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.

The Poem

text

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Now we are tired of boisterous joy,

Have romped enough, my little Boy!

Jane hangs her head upon my breast,

And you shall bring your stool and rest;

This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see

That you can listen quietly:

And, as I promised, I will tell

That strange adventure which befel

A poor blind Highland Boy.

A

Highland

Boy!—why call him so?

Because, my Darlings, ye must know

That, under hills which rise like towers,

Far higher hills than these of ours!

He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight

The sun, the day; the stars, the night;

Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,

Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,

Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,

Nor had a melancholy mind;

For God took pity on the Boy,

And was his friend; and gave him joy

Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above

Her other children him did love:

For, was she here, or was she there,

She thought of him with constant care,

And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad

In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,

And bonnet with a feather gay,

To Kirk he on the sabbath day

Went hand in hand with her.

A dog too, had he; not for need,

But one to play with and to feed;

Which would have led him, if bereft

Of company or friends, and left

Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow—

And thus from house to house would go;

And all were pleased to hear and see,

For none made sweeter melody

Than did the poor blind Boy.

Yet he had many a restless dream;

Both when he heard the eagles scream,

And when he heard the torrents roar,

And heard the water beat the shore

Near which their cottage stood.

Beside a lake their cottage stood,

Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;

But one of mighty size, and strange;

That, rough or smooth, is full of change,

And stirring in its bed.

For to this lake, by night and day,

The great Sea-water finds its way

Through long, long windings of the hills

And drinks up all the pretty rills

And rivers large and strong:

Then hurries back the road it came—

Returns, on errand still the same;

This did it when the earth was new;

And this for evermore will do,

As long as earth shall last.

And, with the coming of the tide,

Come boats and ships that safely ride

Between the woods and lofty rocks;

And to the shepherds with their flocks

Bring tales of distant lands.

And of those tales, whate'er they were,

The blind Boy always had his share;

Whether of mighty towns, or vales

With warmer suns and softer gales,

Or wonders of the Deep.

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,

When from the water-side he heard

The shouting, and the jolly cheers;

The bustle of the mariners

In stillness or in storm.

But what do his desires avail?

For He must never handle sail;

Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float

In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat,

Upon the rocking waves.

His Mother often thought, and said,

What sin would be upon her head

If she should suffer this: "My Son,

Whate'er you do, leave this undone;

The danger is so great."

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side

Still sounding with the sounding tide,

And heard the billows leap and dance,

Without a shadow of mischance,

Till he was ten years old.

When one day (and now mark me well,

Ye soon shall know how this befell)

He in a vessel of his own,

On the swift flood is hurrying down,

Down to the mighty Sea.

In such a vessel never more

May human creature leave the Shore!

If this or that way he should stir,

Woe to the poor blind Mariner!

For death will be his doom.

But say what bears him?—Ye have seen

The Indian's bow, his arrows keen,

Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;

Gifts which, for wonder or delight,

Are brought in ships from far.

Such gifts had those seafaring men

Spread round that haven in the glen;

Each hut, perchance, might have its own;

And to the Boy they all were known—

He knew and prized them all.

The rarest was a Turtle-shell

Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

A shell of ample size, and light

As the pearly car of Amphitrite,

That sportive dolphins drew.

And, as a Coracle that braves

On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,

This shell upon the deep would swim,

And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing surge.

And this the little blind Boy knew:

And he a story strange yet true

Had heard, how in a shell like this

An English Boy, O thought of bliss!

Had stoutly launched from shore;

Launched from the margin of a bay

Among the Indian isles, where lay

His father's ship, and had sailed far—

To join that gallant ship of war,

In his delightful shell.

Our Highland Boy oft visited

'The house that held this prize; and, led

By choice or chance, did thither come

One day when no one was at home,

And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate, alone and blind,

That story flashed upon his mind;—

A bold thought roused him, and he took

The shell from out its secret nook,

And bore it on his head.

He launched his vessel,—and in pride

Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side,

Stepped into it—his thoughts all free

As the light breezes that with glee

Sang through the adventurer's hair.

A while he stood upon his feet;

He felt the motion—took his seat;

Still better pleased as more and more

The tide retreated from the shore,

And sucked, and sucked him in.

And there he is in face of Heaven.

How rapidly the Child is driven!

The fourth part of a mile, I ween,

He thus had gone, ere he was seen

By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me

What shrieking and what misery!

For many saw; among the rest

His Mother, she who loved him best,

She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the child, the sightless Boy,

It is the triumph of his joy!

The bravest traveller in balloon,

Mounting as if to reach the moon,

Was never half so blessed.

And let him, let him go his way,

Alone, and innocent, and gay!

For, if good Angels love to wait

On the forlorn unfortunate,

This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,

Which from the crowd on shore was sent,

The cries which broke from old and young

In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

Are stifled—all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew

A boat is ready to pursue;

And from the shore their course they take,

And swiftly down the running lake

They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace;

So have ye seen the fowler chase

On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast

A youngling of the wild-duck's nest

With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept

To seize (while on the Deep it slept)

The hapless creature which did dwell

Erewhile within the dancing shell,

They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made,

They follow, more and more afraid,

More cautious as they draw more near;

But in his darkness he can hear,

And guesses their intent.

"

Lei-gha—Lei-gha

"—he then cried out,

"

Lei-gha—Lei-gha

"—with eager shout;

Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,

And what he meant was, "Keep away,

And leave me to myself!"

Alas! and when he felt their hands—

You've often heard of magic wands,

That with a motion overthrow

A palace of the proudest show,

Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams—that inward light

With which his soul had shone so bright—

All vanished;—'twas a heartfelt cross

To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice,

With which the very hills rejoice:

'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly

Have watched the event, and now can see

That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,

Full sure they were a happy band,

Which, gathering round, did on the banks

Of that great Water give God thanks,

And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart

The blind Boy's little dog took part;

He leapt about, and oft did kiss

His master's hands in sign of bliss,

With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,

She who had fainted with her fear,

Rejoiced when waking she espies

The Child; when she can trust her eyes,

And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,

When he was in the house again:

Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;

She kissed him—how could she chastise?

She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved

The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;

And, though his fancies had been wild,

Yet he was pleased and reconciled

To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell

Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;

And long the story will repeat

Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,

And how he was preserved.

Note Contents 1803 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 B C D E

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Variant 1:  

1827

We've ...

1807

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Variant 2:  

1807

How ...

MS.

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Variant 3:  

1807

Aye, willingly, and what is more

One which you never heard before,

True story this which I shall tell

MS.

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Variant 4:  

1837

In land where many a mountain towers,

1807

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Variant 5:  

1807

... could ...

MS.

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Variant 6:  

1827

... sweetly ...

1807

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Variant 7:  

1815

You ...

1807

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Variant 8:  

1837

He's in a vessel of his own,

On the swift water hurrying down

Towards the mighty Sea.

1807

He in a vessel of his own,

On the swift flood is hurrying down

1827

Towards the great, great Sea.

MS.

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Variant 9:  

1815

... ne'er before

Did human Creature ...

1807

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Variant 10:  

The following stanza was only in the edition of 1807:

Strong is the current; but be mild,

Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!

If ye in anger fret or chafe,

A Bee-hive would be ship as safe

As that in which he sails.

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Variant 11:  

1815

But say, what was it? Thought of fear!

Well may ye tremble when ye hear!

—A Household Tub, like one of those,

Which women use to wash their clothes,

This carried the blind Boy.

1807

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Variant 12:  

1820

And one, the rarest, was a Shell

Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

The Shell of a green Turtle, thin

And hollow;—you might sit therein.

It was so wide and deep.

1815

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Variant 13:  

1820

'Twas even the largest of its kind,

Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind;

So light a Shell that it would swim,

And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing waves.

1815

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Variant 14:  

1837

... which ...

1815

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Variant 15:  

1827

... in his arms.

1815

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Variant 16:  

1827

Close to the water he had found

This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,

Went into it; and, without dread,

Following the fancies in his head,

He paddled up and down.

1807

And with the happy burthen hied,

And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,—

Stepped into it; and, without dread,

1815

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Variant 17:  

1827

And dallied thus, till from the shore

The tide retreating more and more

Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.

1807

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Variant 18:   The two previous stanzas were added in the edition of 1815.
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Variant 19:  

1837

... then did he cry

... most eagerly;

1807

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Variant 20:  

1807

... read ...

MS.

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Variant 21:  

1837

Had ...

1807

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Variant 22:  

1832

She could not blame him, or chastise;

1807

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Variant 23:   This stanza was added in the edition of 1815.
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Footnote A:   The title in the editions of 1807 to 1820 was The Blind Highland Boy. (A Tale told by the Fireside.)

This poem gave its title to a separate division in the second volume of the edition of 1807, viz. "The Blind Highland Boy; with other Poems."—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  This reading occurs in all the editions. But Wordsworth, whose MS. was not specially clear, may have written, or meant to write "petty," (a much better word), and not perceived the mistake when revising the sheets. If he really wrote "petty," he may have meant either small rills (rillets), or used the word as Shakespeare used it, for "pelting" rills.—Ed.
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Footnote C:   Compare Tennyson's In Memoriam, stanza xix.:

'There twice a day the Severn fills;

The salt sea-water passes by,

And hushes half the babbling Wye,

And makes a silence in the hills, etc.'

Ed.
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Footnote D:   This and the following six stanzas were added in 1815.—Ed.
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Footnote E:   Writing to Walter Scott, from Coleorton, on Jan. 20, 1807, Wordsworth sent him this stanza of the poem, and asked

"Could you furnish me, by application to any of your Gaelic friends, a phrase in that language which could take its place in the following verse of eight syllables, and have the following meaning."

He adds,

"The above is part of a little poem which I have written on a Highland story told me by an eye-witness ..."

This is the nearest clue we have to the date of the composition of the poem.—Ed.
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Note:   It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of a Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell and floated in it from the shore to his Father's Ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. Upon the suggestion of a Friend, I have substituted such a Shell for that less elegant vessel in which my blind voyager did actually intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Levin, as was related to me by an Eye-witness.—W. W. 1815.

This note varies slightly in later editions. The Loch Leven referred to is a sea-loch in Argyllshire, into which the tidal water flows with some force from Loch Linnhe at Ballachulish.

'By night and day

The great Sea-water finds its way

Through long, long windings of the hills.'

The friend referred to in the note of 1815, who urged Wordsworth to give his blind voyager a Shell, instead of a washing-tub to sail in, was Coleridge. The original tale of the tub was not more unfortunate than the lines in praise of Wilkinson's spade, and several of Wordsworth's friends, notably Charles Lamb and Barren Field, objected to the change. Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815,

"I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast" [i. e. the reviewer!] "or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could fairly be said against it. You say you made the alteration for the 'friendly reader,' but the 'malicious' will take it to himself."

(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 283.) Wordsworth could not be induced to "undo his work," and go back to his own original; although he evidently agreed with what Lamb had said (as is seen in a letter to Barren Field, Oct. 24, 1828).—Ed.

Contents 1803
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